


The Winter Of Our Discontent

by Barachiel1976



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, POV Alternating, Season/Series 07, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-01-04 14:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21199298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barachiel1976/pseuds/Barachiel1976
Summary: Yet Another Game of Thrones Fix-It Fic!Jaime leaves Cersei after finding out about the Sept of Baelor, makes his way North to find Brienne, and manages to find an unusual traveling companion.  Jon Snow goes to get aid from Daenerys Targaryen and finds a woman more interesting in making allies than demanding subservience.  Left alone with Littlefinger, Sansa tries to rule the North in her brother's absence, all the while trying to keep the Lord of The Vale as an ally, without becoming yet another rung on his ladder.  A sign of hope comes in the return of her long-lost brother, Bran, long believed dead, who returns to Winterfell with strange new powers.  All the while, Tyrion is left to juggle the conflicting personalities on the Queen's Council, plan a war strategy against his sister, and manage their queen's idealism versus the harsh realities of war.





	1. The Road North

**Author's Note:**

> This continuity branches off at Season 7, Episode 3 "Dragonstone."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm like 5 months late to the party on this, but it took me that long to not only reconcile my intense hatred and disappointment of Season 8, but to come up with an overall narrative I feel is worth exploring. While I have read other fix-it fics, I've not read them all, so if I wind up stealing plot points from someone, my apologies, it's not intentional. 
> 
> This is also my first time posting on AO3, so if I'm making any community faux pas, please point them out in the comment section so I can fix them. This fic will be tag-lite for now, but as the fic evolves, I'll add more.
> 
> This will be a Jonerys fic eventually, but it's going to be a slow burn getting there. Same with the M rating. It may not seem that way now, but believe me, it'll get there

**KING’S LANDING**

“No one walks away from me. Not even you.” Those words continued to play through his head as he steered his mount down the forested King’s Road.

Jaime Lannister didn’t know what confused him more: that his sister threatened to have her monstrous bodyguard end his life, or that she failed to follow through and let him walk out the door.

When he’d rode back in King’s Landing, to the smoking ruin of the Sept of Baelor, Jaime felt a sense of apprehension overtake him. That feeling was well-founded as he passed through the streets. The smallfolk glared at him, in his Lannister armor, as he rode by. If he hadn’t been accompanied by a contingent of his troops, he half expected they’d be throwing stones and cowpies.

There was a tension in air that pressed down even on the most clueless soldier, and his men closed ranks, watching warily as they made their way to the Red Keep. And that was when the bells rang: the tolling that signified a new monarch being crowned. Apprehension became dread as Jaime stirred his horse from a trot to a canter, his men moving to keep up.

Tommen, he thought. No, she wouldn’t have. It had to have been the High Sparrow and his Faith Militant fanatics. But he knew it as a lie even as he thought of it. Tommen was a devout believer in the Seven. Half the reason the High Sparrow wielded so much authority is because the young king refused to challenge him.

No, this was Cersei. It had to be. So what happened to their son?

It wasn’t long after returning to the Keep that he’d learned the truth. As he watched Cersei being crowned, he heard the whispers from the farthest edge of the crowd, of what she’d done: the destruction of the Sept, the slaughter of House Tyrell, the Faith Militant and the other attendees, the massive casualties of those unfortunate enough to live and work near the Sept. Green flame.

Wildfire.

The ground seemed to buckle beneath his feet, and for a moment, he felt the food he’d eaten that morning threaten to rush back up his throat. She’d done it. His sister, the woman he’d devoted his life to, in defiance of his father, society, and even the gods themselves, had done the very thing he’d ruined his own reputation and honor to prevent.

At first, Jaime had tried to rationalize it, to take the blame on himself. If only he’d been there, instead of laying siege to Riverrun at Cersei’s request. She’d been pushed too far, that was all. Oh, the excuses he’d made for her.

But then he was finally allowed a private audience by that worm, Qyburn, all the excuses turned to ash. Cersei had boasted of the boldness of her move, how she’d eliminated all their enemies. That now their house would rule uncontested.

“And what about Tommen?” he’d asked.

She’d only turned away to look out the balcony window of her new office. “He made his choice.”

“He was fourteen!” Even he’d been shocked by how loudly he’d shouted at her. For the first time in their lives, she looked at him, shocked at his defiance. As the days passed, the arguments had only gotten worse from there. He’d tried to make her see that what she’d done had gone too far; that she’d alienated the very people she was supposed to rule.

“Let them fear me. Let them hate me,” she hissed. “All I want from them is obedience.”

It was then that Jaime knew she was lost. Lost to power and ego and delusions of grandeur. The people were not going to stand for her reign, no matter how cowed they acted now.

“I won’t stand here and watch the mob rip you apart,” he told her, desperate to reach any last scrap of sanity she might have had.

Instead, she only sneered, as she sipped from her wine glass. “As if Ser Gregor would let them.”

Jaime glared up at the hulking monstrosity that barely fit into a suit of Kingsguard armor. Just seeing that abomination wearing that noble uniform revolted the standing lord-commander. “Even he can’t protect you from an entire city, much less seven kingdoms, worth of people who want your blood!”

But again, she waved off his concerns as nothing of importance. Finally, he left, seeking a bath and food, and most importantly, alcohol to soothe his troubled spirit. Every day, he came back to her, hoping to make her see reason, but after a week of arguments that grew more and more heated, he’d had enough.

He couldn’t stand by and watch her go down in madness and flames.

He should stop her. He knew it, in his heart. But he’d already killed one monarch. He didn’t have it in him to slay another, and not one he’d loved. Not the mother of his children. Dead children, a tiny voice inside reminded him. As much as he hated her at this moment, Jaime loved her still. It was his curse.

“I’m leaving,” he told her, simply after she’d retired from holding court.

“And where will you go?” she asked, sounding almost bored. “Who else would take you, Kingslayer?” She laced the last word with the same venom she once threw at their little brother. “Maybe you’ll run off and join our bastard brother at the silver-haired harlot’s side? Maybe she’ll forgive you for stabbing her father in the back.”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But I can’t stay here. I can’t watch you become…” he struggled to find the words, “a monster.”

A crack echoed through the room, as fine spiderweb lines appeared in the wine glass Cersei cluthed in her hand. “No one walks away from me. Not even you.”

Jaime stared at her. He should have been shocked at her threat, but he’d expected it. In all honesty, he’d walked into her chambers this last time, expecting to never leave again.

“Do what you must,” came his reply, and he turned for the door.

As his hand touched the handle, her voice called out, “Ser Gregor.” Behind him, the beast stepped forward. The scraping sound of his giant sword being pulled from its sheath filled the silence of the room. Jaime froze for a moment, then looked back to the new Queen.

She looked at him, pain and confusion being smothered by a thin veil of defiance. She couldn’t believe he’d leave her. It was not something he’d thought possible himself.

“Goodbye, Cersei.” And he opened the door, waiting for the whisper of the Mountain’s blade to slice through his spine, but it never came. Instead, the door shut with a soft thud that nonetheless seemed to echo like the explosion that removed the Sept of Baelor from the world.

Deciding not to question his fortune, he picked up the pace and made his way to the stables, where his horse was waiting for him, as was an old acquaintance.

“There you are. Thought she’d had your pretty little head taken clean off,” said Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. He stood beside two horses, both loaded with gear.

“She nearly did.” Jaime nodded towards the second horse. “Going somewhere?”

“You live as long as me, you do so by figuring out which way the wind is blowing.” He nodded to the empty whole in the city skyline left by the ruined sept. “And that wind doesn’t smell too good. Your sister-lover isn’t going to keep her crown long. I figure now’s a good time to take another little journey, and plead my case to next person to sit their arse in that bloody chair.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Away from here,” the mercenary answered. “Probably head towards the Reach. It’s got good food, and lasts the winter better than most.”

“So does Dorne,” Jaime pointed out, only for his companion to wince.

“I’m not going anywhere near Dorne, not after our last bloody trip.” As if Jaime needed any reminders of that horrible venture. The duo had traveled all that way to save Mircella, only to have her die in his arms, regardless.

“How about you? Which direction are you headed?”

When he saw the look on the other mans’ face as he answered, Jaime wished for all the world for a way to capture that as a painting for all eternity.

“You’re mad,” the older man stated bluntly.

“Perhaps,” he admitted, offering his one remaining good hand to Bronn, who clasped it in return.

“Take care of yourself, you daft bastard.” He just shook his head, “after all, you still owe me a castle.”

Jaime let out a small snort. “Take it up with the Queen. I’m sure she’ll be happy to make good on our arrangement.” The two men mounted their horses and rode off into the dusk.

**THE KINGSROAD**

It was a fortnight into his journey that the storm hit. It had rolled in with little warning, forcing Jaime to travel in it for two days. In many ways, it reminded him of the storm the so-called Dragon Queen took her first epithet from, “Stormborn.” It lashed out for days and nights, leaving the lone lion seeking shelter where he could, but there was little of it.

On the third day of rain-soaked travel, Jaime finally came to an inn. From the wagons and horses stabled there, it was clear he wasn’t the only traveller to seek shelter from the tempest. Tying off his steed, he quickly made his way inside, shedding his waterlogged cloak as he came in the door.

Those seated near it, hissed as the roaring wind sprayed the the interior in the few moments it took him to shut itagin. A portly man in mid-forties, looking every inch the typical innkeeper in every bard’s tale welcomed him in with a grunt. “Welcome good sir, your coin is welcome here, but be warned, there are no more rooms available. Storm’s got all the merchants hole’d up the past three days.”

Jaime nodded, looking around for somewhere to hang his cloak. A passing serving girl nodded to a trio of racks set up near the fireplace across the room, and offered to take it for him. He nodded gratefully at the girl, and slipped her a coin to go with it. “If there’s a dry nook where I can rest my head, I assure you, the accommodations will be more than satisfactory.”

“There may be a few spots on the floor not yet taken,” the portly fellow assured him. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

“Stew, ale, whatever you’ve got, I’ll take it,” the Lannister replied, moving to an open seat not too far from the roaring fire. As he sat, he felt a pair of eyes on him. He resisted the urge to look until the girl brought his beer and food. Then he made a surreptitious sweep of the room as he thanked her. But he saw no one paying in particular interest. And yet, the feeling of being watched lingered nonetheless.

Surely, Cersei wouldn’t send assassins after me, he thought. Not after letting me go. Then again, perhaps she’s had another change of heart. He wouldn’t put it past her. It would seem I’m not getting much sleep, after all.

Despite his wariness, sleep did claim him. When he awoke the next morn, it was to a hazy white sky and sunlight beaming in through the slats covering the windows of the common room. He winced both from the brightness of the day and the taut muscles in hs neck. Falling asleep, chin resting on wrist, elbow on the table, was not the gentlest position, and his body was making its dissatisfaction known.

Now that the storm had passed, many of his fellow travellers were making ready to leave, as was he. After breaking his fast, Jaime made his horse ready, when he felt a presence behind him. “If you’re going to kill me, I ask that you do it quickly. Otherwise, I really must be on my way,” he told the person without turning around.

“Is there a reason I should kill you?” a small, cool, yet feminine voice answered.

Curious now to see the fact to match it, the former Kingsguard turned to see a small, dark-haired girl, who’d probably only recently seen her eighteenth nameday , staring at him with an intense gaze he normally only saw on the most hardened killers. “Depends on who you talk to,” replied Jaime as he returned to backing his saddlebags with the provisions he’d just purchased. “I’m sure there are more people in this world that want me dead than not.”

“Because you’re the Kingslayer?” That made him grit his teeth for just a moment. Even a total stranger on the road knew who he was, called him by that gods-cursed nickname.

“Among many other things,” he retorted. “Do I know you?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then what do you want?”

“You’re headed North.” It wasn’t a question.

“Very astute. What. Do. You. Want?”

“I’m headed North too, was thinking we should travel together.”

That brought Jaime up short. He turned around fully to regard this strange creature who’d decided to bother him.

“I prefer to travel alone.”

“So do I.”

Gods, this girl was exasperating. “So why should either of us do otherwise?”

“Safety in numbers,” she shrugged. “And winter is coming.”

A chill shot up his spine. His instincts were to turn her away, but another thought came to him. If she were there to kill him, then she’d just follow him any way and do it the first chance she got. If he kept her close, perhaps he could keep his skin a bit longer.

“Alright,” he relented. “You have your own horse?” The girl nodded to a small grey mare a ways away. “Listen, girl, I don’t know what you want, but if its to bed a lord, I’m afraid I’m interesting in only sharing the road, not my bedroll.”

“You’re a bit old for my tastes,” the girl remarked dryly.

Jaime actually managed to suppress a smile at that. “You’re going to be pleasant company, I can tell. Got a name, girl?”

“Jeyne.”

Eying her skeptically, Jaime finally just shrugged, and stirred his horse to move. “Of course, you are. It’s a long way to Winterfell.”

* * *

As the pair made camp for the night, Jaime kept a weather eye on his traveling companion. They’d traveled in silence, and the knight had welcomed this unexpected development. He had so many thoughts and feelings he was still sorting out, and the weeks-long journey to the North had been giving him ample opportunity.

But now, as he got the fire going, he regarded Jeyne. She had a strange, thin blade at her side at all times, and from the way she carried herself, he had no worries for her saftey. He’d seen seasoned soldier carry themselves with less confidence than his mysterious tag-along.

“Shall we have dinner before you kill me?” he asked, gesturing to the rabbit they’d captured and spit over their little fire.

The dark-haired girl eyed him for a moment, before sitting across the fire. With a smoot pull she freed her odd little sword from her belt and began to clean it. “Why do you think I’m here to kill you?”

“Because I can only think of two reasons why someone like you would be so eager to travel with me, and you’ve already ruled out the first.”

The corner of her mouth pulled upward for a moment, but she never lifted her gaze from her work. “Are you expecting assassins? I ask only because I might reconsider my choice in companions.”

“Let’s just say I left my sister very unhappy with me, and people who’ve made her unhappy tend not to live very long.”

“Your sister. Cersei. The queen.” A chill wind stirred the trees around them, the girl finally lifting her eyes from her blade to regard the older man.

“Yes, that would be her.”

“What did you do to anger her?”

“I questioned the sanity of blowing up a church full of people. It seems that’s tantamount to treason these days.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t kill you right there.”

“So am I. She threatened to. She ordered that hulking brute of a bodyguard to do it, but stopped him at the last.”

Finally, an emotion passed over the girl’s face: curiosity. “Do you think she let you go because she loves you?”

Jaime could only bow his head in silence, for several moments. Finally, he answered with a dry, cracked voice, “No. I don’t think she ever really loved me.”

“But you loved her.”

“Yes,” he snapped, jerking his head back upright to look at her. “Yes, I loved my sister. I fucked my sister, and yes, all of her children were mine, not that fat bastard’s. Is that what you want? To finally hear the Kingslayer admit to his vile lusts?”

“But it wasn’t lust,” Jeyne said quietly. “You really loved her.”

“Yes,” he choked out. “I did.” Neither missed his use of the past tense.

“So what changed? I mean, you’ve murdered kings, destroyed whole families, who cares about one old sept?”

Leaping up from the fire, Jaime towered over the sitting young woman, but she didn’t so much as flinch or look away. “It wasn’t about the fucking Sept! Fuck the gods and their sparrow and their gaudy temples. It was the people inside I cared about. It was the people outside, just going about their day, earning coin to feed their families, caring for their children, all the innocent people who died because of my sister.”

Jeyne’s face remained cool and impassive. “I never thought I’d hear the Kingslayer get so upset about the lives of smallfolk.”

Turning away to cover his snarl, Jaime moved to the edge of their camp, staring out into the darkness. Around them, the sounds of the forest could be heard, the damp and muddy earth still musky from the storm.

They stayed quiet for several moments, until Jeyne called out to him. “Why Winterfell?”

Shaking off his reverie, Jaime turned back to her. “What?”

“Why Winterfell? Why would you go up North? The Starks have retaken their ancestral seat. Can’t imagine they’d be too happy to see you.”

“Where else should I go? My sister will make sure I find no shelter in the Crownlands, so I can’t go home. Dorne and the Reach have joined with the Dragon Queen. Somehow I doubt she’ll welcome the man whose entire reputation is built on the fact that he killed her father.”

“Probably not,” the strange young woman agreed, showing the first smile he’d seen on her since they’d met.

“I was never much of a sailor, so the Iron Islands are out. The Vale is allied with the North, already, and the Stormlands are in chaos since Stannis’ sudden death. Given the untimely demise House Frey, I’m a bit leery of the Riverlands.”

The smile grew into something dark and menacing, and Jaime found himself resting his one good hand on the hilt of his sword. “Because you helped the Freys kill the Starks.”

Sighing, Jaime pulled his hand away and sat back down next to the fire. “My father,” he corrected her, “He rarely kept me in his counsel.”

“Would you have objected if you did?”

Jaime thought it over for several moments. “Yes. It wasn’t right. Sacred hospitality should be inviolate. Not that it would have done any good.” He just shook his head. “My father would have called me a naive fool, explained in all the ways it the best, most pragmatic way to win the war, then gone ahead regardless of my feelings on the matter.” He opened a bottle of ale, procured from the inn before their departure. “That’s how most of our conversations went, to tell the truth.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Haven’t I?”

“No, you explained why you won’t go to all those other places. There’ still Braavos, Volantis, or any of the cities across the sea. So why Winterfell?”

Sighing, Jaime took a long swallow from the bottle. “You’re a perceptive and stubborn little thing, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Because I have only one friend left in this world, and she’s currently serving the Lady of Winterfell.”

“You think she’ll keep Lady Sansa from taking your head the moment she sees you?”

“Probably not. But I want to see her again, to tell her… things I should have told her before we last parted.”

“So you don’t care if they execute you?”

“No, I would rather like to live,” he chuckled. “It’s pretty much the only thing left I’m good at. But if they insist?” He looked down into his bottle. “Well, there’s not much left to live for, anymore, is there? I imagine more people turn out in celebration of my death, than in mourning.”

With that, the conversation died, and two ate their meal in silence. Jaime had a feeling it was going to be an even longer trip than he’d bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, "Jeyne" is who you think she is. I'm not exactly subtle. 
> 
> I decided to write Ser Bronn a graceful exit, as I really have no idea what to use him for other than comic relief and a shock death, neither of which particularly appeal to me. Still, he might re-appear should inspiration strike. 
> 
> Apologies for my writing style. I'm not really great with description in general, and I've not written fiction in over a decade. So this will probably come off like a Kevin Smith script, with lots and lots of dialogue, and little action or environmental detail until I get my groove back.


	2. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys meets with her Council and discusses plans for the war against Cersei. Jon Snow arrives on Dragonstone seeking her aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here the character changes begin to become apparent. First, Tyrion no longer suddenly has this deep, abiding need to save his sister, nor do he and Varys suddenly possess 21st century morality with strong pacifist leanings. They’ll still advocate for less violent solutions when plausible, but they don’t sudden hold Daenerys to an impossibly high standard they’ve never held anyone else to. 
> 
> Also, Yara has not ferried the Sand Snakes back to Dorne and gotten ambushed by Euron, which happened back in Episode 2. This is one of the "pre-first-chapter" changes I mentioned that would come up as needed. I didn't particularly want to re-hash the second episode for the sole reason of justifying them avoiding their original fate.

**DRAGONSTONE**

Daenerys Stormborn looked out over the wind-tossed seas that crashed against the shores of Dragonstone. At the edge of the horizon, she could see the dark grey of angry clouds off in the distance, heralding a violent storm soon to come.

I was born here, the young queen thought to herself. Behind her, her advisers fussed over the carved wooden markers on the huge table behind, denoting both her own forces and those of her enemies. The famous Painted table that her ancestor, Aegon Targaryen, conqueror of Westeros and uniter of the Seven Kingdoms, had to be carved in as exacting a scale as the finest maps, to match the continent he would one day rule. It was said he used it to meticulously plot out his invasion.

And now, I’m here to do much the same. Outside, the cries of her Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion echoed down across the sky. Their forces had claimed the island weeks ago, and yet, despite that time, and the significance of this place to her, personally, she felt like an intruder. Perhaps it’s because this place was in the hands of the Usurper’s brother, she mused, recalling the not-so-small pleasure she’d taken in stripping the banners of the Stag from the island and burning them.

“My little birds in King’s Landing have shared with me a most surprising rumor,” Varys announced as he entered the room, drawing Daenerys from her reverie.

“Have the smallfolk lynched Cersei, or merely stoned her to death,” quipped her Hand, Cersei’s own brother.

“Neither, sadly, though the discontent with her rule is growing daily,” the spymaster replied.

“Pity,” Tyrion Lannister muttered as he brought a cup of wine to his mouth, only to immediately lower it again at his Queen’s glower.

“What news do you bring, Lord Varys,” she asked, shifted her gaze to her Master of Whispers. Their confrontation a few weeks prior had smoothed over the largest issues, but she still had trouble forgetting how easily the man seemed to cast aside monarchs whenever it suited him.

“It would seem that Queen Cersei’s actions of late have cost her one of her oldest and closest allies,” the sardonic twist he put on the word ‘closest’ did not go unnoticed, nor did the pointed look he shot to her Hand.

Whatever it was Varys was implying, Tyrion picked up on, immediately. “You don’t mean…”

“I do.”

“Would someone mind informing the Queen of this conversation you’re having without me?” she asked, growing mildly exasperated with the two. They were an odd pair, but somehow the Imp and the Spider made a formidable duo, even if they occasionally frustrated her with these innocuous and difficult to follow conversations.

“My brother has abandoned Cersei,” he announced, pulling himself up into a chair.

Merely mentioning the man who murdered her father made Daenerys clench her fists together for a moment. Everyone from Ser Barristan to Tyrion himself had told her all about her father, and how he deserved his fate. But the idea that a man sworn to protect him with his life had stabbed him in the back, galled her. “And why is this significant?”

Olenna Tyrell cut in, answering for them. “It means the lovesick fool has finally had the blinders pulled off, and seen that woman for the poisonous thing she really is.”

“What Lady Olenna means,” Tyrion began, only to be cut off at the knees.

“I can speak for myself, dwarf,” the old woman snapped. “Jaime, for all his many faults, has been loyal to his sister, to the detriment of all else, including his own reputation and well-being. Why do you think he stayed in the Kingsguard all these years, despite his reputation being less than dirt among them.”

Daenerys regarded the Queen of Thorns thoughtfully. “I simply assumed it was a reward for winning Robert’s war for him.”

Snorting, the last Tyrell fired back, “Oh, my dear, I thought you were smarter than that.” Only Olenna dared speak to her in that fashion, but rather than rankle her, Daenerys has grown to find it endearing. Much like Ser Barristan, she never doubted for a moment where she stood with the Queen of Thorns.

“Enlighten me, then,” she challenged back with a small smile, which earned one from the older woman in return. Olenna did not suffer fools, but she did enjoy those who didn’t wither in fright from her challenges.

Tyion started to speak again, but immediately thought better of it. Varys just shook his head at the dwarf and held his tongue.

“There’s only one reason Jaime Lannister stayed a sworn member of the Kingsguard, despite becoming a hated and mocked figure within its ranks: to protect his sister from her drunken sod of a husband, and to stay close to her.

“To bed her, you mean,” the young Targaryen offered, disdain dripping from her tongue.

That brought a chuckle from the elderly woman. “Among other things, yes.”

“I still fail to see why this news is of any significance,” she told her advisers, “unless you intend for me to recruit him?” Her icy tone left no doubt to her feelings on that topic.

“Well, he could give us more direct insight into…,” Tyrion began, but Varys interceded before their Queen’s glare could reduce her Hand to ash faster than any dragon’s fire.

“It a gage of Cersei’s stability as queen,” informed the Spider. “If the one person in all of Westeros who has loved her unconditionally for decades has left her side, then imagine what all the people who fear her are feeling.”

“You’re suggesting that an uprising may be fermenting.”

“Exactly,” Tyrion cut in, tired of being verbally stepped on. “If King’s Landing and the Crownlands go into open revolt, then we may be able to take the capital without a prolonged siege.”

Turning away from them, Daenerys strode back out to the balcony overlooking the sea. “I’ve seen revolts,” she told them, remembering how the Sons of the Harpy rose up out of the audience in the fighting pits. “They are bloody and violent and as many innocent die as are liberated.”

“It’s better than burning the Red Keep to the ground,” Tyrion pointed out.

“Is it?” she murmured to herself. “What about the rest of our strategy?”

“Another unexpected benefit of Ser Jaime’s departure is that Cersei has lost one of her most seasoned commanders,” Varys pointed out.

“Who would take his place then?”

Lady Olenna cut back in. “Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill.”

“One of your vassals, if I’m not mistaken,” Varys interjected smoothly.

“One of your vassals has broken faith, Lady Olenna?” Ellaria Sand asked, not bothering to hide the mirth in her voice. “Perhaps the Queen of Thorns reputation does not hold the strength it once did.”

“Do be quiet, child. You only embarrass yourself when you open that mouth of yours,” fired back the older woman. “Randyll is loyal above all else, unfortunately, he’s also stubborn.”

“How loyal can he be if he’d betray you, his liege lord?” Daenerys asked plainly.

“Randyll believes his loyalty is to the crown, first and foremost. Cersei sits the throne, thus he sees his ultimate allegiance to her, and thus I am the traitor, not he.”

The queen shifted her gaze back to the board. “Tarly. I know that name. He fought for my father, didn’t he?”

Olenna nodded. “As I said, he holds loyalty to the crown above all else.”

“He led the royalist forces at the Battle of Ashford,” remembered Daenerys. “He dealt the Usurper his only defeat.”

“You know your history, your Grace,” Varys flashed her an approving smile. “Though to be fair, the battle was closer to a stalemate than a decisive victory.”

“Nonetheless, he is a competent and seasoned commander,” Tyrion pointed out.

“One who was once loyal to my father,” their monarch mused. “Can we use that?”

“I doubt it,” Olenna snorted. “The man is as stubborn as a mule.”

“Should the chance appear, I would very much like to try.”

Tyrion nodded in agreement. “We’ll win this more by making allies of our enemies, not corpses.”

That got more sounds of derision, from the ladies Olenna and Ellaria both. “You don’t win wars by making peace.”

“No, but you do end them that way,” he fired back. “Wars rarely end with one side exterminated.”

“Perhaps if they did, there would be fewer wars,” Ellaria pointed out, her gaze set pointedly on Tyrion. Her hatred for his family was only too well-known. The Queen’s Hand shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

“My lords, my ladies, we’ve moved away from the subject at hand,” Daenerys cut in, eager to keep the peace. Ellaria Sand was not an ally she would have chosen willingly, given another option, but those willing to ally themselves with her were currently far and few between.

“Too true, your Grace,” agreed Varys, tossing a quick glance to the Hand.

“I think we should reinforce Highgarden and the Reach as soon as possible,” Tyrion pointed out. “Of all the Seven Kingdoms, they were least affected by the War of Five Kings and the chaos that followed.”

“We have the food stores the rest will need to survive the winter,” Olenna informed the group arrayed around the Painted Table. “That fool, Tarley, also knows the disposition of our bannermen, as well as where many of the caches are.”

“Then the Reach needs a force Lord Tarley cannot anticipate,” the queen concluded.

Looking to Qhono, a Dothraki who acted as bodyguard and liason, she gave him orders in the Dothraki tongue. “Take a thousand horses to defend the grazelands of the elder lady,” nodded to Lady Tyrell. “Do not harm those who dwell there, but attack those who bear the flags of the false queen. I will send Unsullied with you to defend their keeps. If you take prisoners, send them to the Unsullied for questioning.”

The dark-haired warrior gave her a quick salute. “It will be as you say, Khaleesi,” then turned and left.

Now, she shifted her gaze to the commander of her Unsullied. “Send a force of five hundred Unsullied with the thousand Dothraki I’ve just dispatched. Your men are to fortify the keeps of Lady Olenna’s loyal bannermen.” She shifted her gaze to the older woman, who nodded in approval. “The Dothraki will be a mobile force, looking to harry and frustrate Lord Tarly’s forces.”

“I welcome your army, your Grace, but I’m not sure I like the idea of a bunch of bloodthirsty rapists stomping through my fields.”

“I understand your concerns, better than you can imagine.” Her thoughts drifted back to her first days with the khalasar and the shocking ways the Dothraki treated those they conquered. “But if I tell them to stay their hand, they will.”

When the Queen of Thorns look only deepened in skepticism, Tyrion cut in. “The Dothrake hold our queen in a near-religious reverence. When she walked out of the conflagration in Vaes Dothrak, they became convinced she is an emissary sent by their Great Stallion, to lead them into a new age.”

Ellaria leaned forward, intrigued by this notion. “They believe so strongly as to change the ways they’ve lived by for a thousand years?”

“Not exactly,” Danerys admitted. “For now, all do as I command, or those commanders loyal to me will punish those who disobey. When the war is won, I will give my khalasar the choice: they can return across the sea and to the old ways, but those who wish it, can remain here and become something new.”

“It will be very interesting to see how many accept your offer,” said the dark-haired woman, but it was Lady Olenna who took the conversation back.

“And if some wish to stay but not live in your new order?”

Outside, Drogon roared and flew past the open balcony. Daenerys smiled, and Olenna raised a hand to signal she withdrew the question.

“What about King’s Landing?” Ellaria pressed. It sits just across the bay. Any other place of strategic importance is days if not weeks out of the way. Surely it will be easier to simply cut off the head of the snake with your dragons.”

“Easier, yes,” cut in the Hand, “but very messy. There are a million people in King’s Landing.

“Casualties of war,” the lady of Dorn waved off, dismissively.

“No,” the Queen answered, harshly. “I am not here to be queen of the ashes. We will take King’s Landing as quickly as we can, while sparing the smallfolk as much as possible.”

“What about the Iron Fleet?” asked Varys, shifting his gaze to Lady Yara Greyjoy.

“I have as much of the fleet as I could take, but my uncle, Euron, is undoubtedly building a new one.”

“You believe he’ll ally with my sister?” asked Tyrion.

“Aye. Now that I’ve taken the bulk of the original fleet and sided with you, your Grace,” she flashed a smile at Daenerys, “he’ll undoubtedly go to our enemy, both to spite me and to have a chance to fuck a Queen.”

From all around the table came noises of disgust and revulsion. “I had heard Euron Greyjoy was a man of low cunning and even lower tastes, but from what you’ve shared, he’s a viler man than even I thought,” grumbled Olenna Tyrel.

“Then I count myself fortunate to have allied with a Greyjoy with greater sense as well as taste.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew my taste, your Grace.” The exiled heir of the Iron Islands had made several flirtatious passes at their queen, who’d only mildly rebuffed them, and not at all with an air of discouragement. This time, her rather blatant innuendo was met with only a raised eyebrow and a bemused smirk.

“As we were saying,” Tyrion cut in. “I suggest a three-pronged approach.” The group’s attention turned to the table, as the Hand stood in his chair, and reached over to move the nearby pieces around.

“We send a force of Dothraki and Unsullied north to take Duskendale. This will give us a secure landing point in the Crownlands, and begin securing the surrounding lands. This will undoubtedly draw the bulk of Cersei’s forces north. Our Dornish allies will then sweep up from the south while Lady Yara blockades the bay. And lastly, once the Tyrells have secured the Reach, with the help of our forces, they will come east, all converging at King’s Landing.”

“A sound strategy,” Varys replied.

Grey Worm nodded in agreement, but pointed out, in his heavily accented voice, “But this will take many weeks to get into position.”

“That’s the point of it,” Tyrion replied. “We will cut off King’s Landing from its allies, wile at the same time, letting the unrest in King’s Landing grow. With any luck, by the time our forces meet up, she’ll already be overthrown by the people of the city.”

“And if she’s not?” snapped the Queen of Thorns. “Will you starve the people of the city out? I hardly see how that’s more merciful that a swift and direct assault.”

It was then Varys spoke up to offer his own part of the strategy. “The siege is a distraction, to keep Cersei’s attention focused outside her walls. As I’m sure you’re aware, there are secret passages that run throughout the Red Keep?”

Heads around the table nodded. While few had seen them firsthand,their existence was a long-running legend. “One of those tunnels leads to a secret exit into Blackwater Bay, hidden from all but the most discerning of criminals.”

“You intend to send in assassins to kill her, should the townsfolk fail to execute her for you,” Ellaria stated. When the queen nodded, she rose to her feet. “My Sand Snakes would be excellent for such a task.”

“Your fool girls would get themselves killed and ruin our best chance at ending this swifly,” Olenna spat. “Sit down.” Ellaria spun towards the old woman, but was stopped by Daenerys raising her hand.

“We have not yet decided on who will be sent when the time comes, but rest assured, we will consider everyone available who’s suited to the task.” This seemed to modify Lady Sand, who retook her seat. However, the venomous glare she cast at the lady of Houses Tyrell did not abate. For her part, Olenna just ignored the other woman.

Daenyrs turned back towards the balcony as Tyrion and Varys explained the finer details of their strategy. Of all the ways she’d imagined coming home, none of them had come close to this. She had but two allies in Westeros, and the pair seemed determined to antagonize one another at every turn. In same ways, it reminded her of the unspoken rivalry between Daario Naharis and Ser Jorah Mormont.

How strange, she thought to herself. Daario was my lover, and yet, I do not miss him. But Ser Jorah… He had been her loyal friend advisor for many years. It was that very fact that made his past betrayal that much more painful. She’d finally come to terms with the past, and reaffirmed his loyalty to her, only to find out he was dying of greyscale. It was a horrific disease borne in the ruins of Old Valyria. He never would have contracted if I hadn’t sent him away.

In the end, she was left no choice but to send him away again, this time with a royal command to find a cure. A fool’s dream, she chastised herself. I just didn’t want to watch him rot away and die before my eyes. And yet, she hoped beyond all reason that he’d achieve the impossible. I want to give him back his home, the way he’s helped give me back mine.

Movement near the shoreline ended her revelry. A ship flying the wolf banner had anchored off the shore, and small rowboat carrying two figures was making its way to shore.

As if on cue, an Unsullied entered the room. “Your Grace, the King in the North has arrived, as you requested. He is coming ashore now, with his Hand.”

She nodded to the man. “So I see,” she nodded out the window. “Show him to the throne room as soon as they’ve landed.” The soldier nodded, and exited as swiftly as he’d arrived.

“Forgive me, my lords, but we must cut this short. I must give our new arrival a proper greeting. Lord Tyrion, if you would be so kind as to join me?”

He could only nod as she pushed himself out of the chair and onto his feet. “Yes, your Grace.” The others left quietly, with Varys offering Lady Olenna a hand up, only to have it batted away. Yet, they left together, talking softly between themselves. Once again, trepidation over her decision to allow the Spider into her ranks crept into her thoughts.

“You know,” Tyrion began, as they made their own way to greet their new arrivals, “one day you’re going to have to actually trust Varys.”

“Would you, in my position?”

He hesitated, before reluctantly admitting, “No, probably not.”

“But you do,” she pointed out.

“I do. He’s my friend. Perhaps my only one.”

“Perhaps that’s something we should work on resolving,” she offered.

“Your Grace?”

“When we speak, it is only of politics and strategy and important matters.”

“Well, you are the Queen, and I am the Hand,” he pointed out.

“If you make that comment about the Hand and wiping arses, I’ll have every barrel of wine on the island tossed out into the sea.” She cast a glare down at him, but its harshness was blunted by a small smile.

A pained grimace spread over the older man’s scarred features, but he too, smiled, all the same. “Truly, you are a vicious tyrant, your Grace.”

“Daenerys,” she informed him. “In private, you may call me Daenerys.”

Once again, Tyrion was grateful for the thick if somewhat unkempt beard he’d grown, as he hid his blush at the warmness in her tone. “Did you have something else you wished to discuss then?”

Coming to the spiral stairs that connected the Chamber of the Painted Table to that of the receiving room where the throne sat, the two began their descent. “I was thinking I’d like to learn Cyvasse. Perhaps you could instruct me?”

The dwarf glanced up at her in both surprise and joy. “I could at that, Your… Daenerys. I would be delighted.” The game had long been one of his favorites but he’d not had the opportunity to indulge since before Joffrey’s wedding.

The pair emerged into the enormous chamber that housed the finely crafted stone throne of Dragonstone. Unlike the Iron Throne, it was a large and primitive looking thing, and yet, somehow far more comfortable. One assumed it was the coolness of the stone that made the difference.

Four Unsullied, stood at the four corners of the room, with another two directly beside the door. Missandei was already beside the throne. The two women smiled as Daenerys mounted the steps to take her seat.

“Assuming that these lessons will be in an informal setting, will wine be available?” Tyrion asked hopefully. The young queen frowned on his excessive drinking, and had all but forbidden it when they were working.

“Of course,” she replied smoothly, as she settled into the throne, letting the mantle of Queen slip back into place. “I’ll need every advantage possible if I am to best you.”

Her Hand bowed his head in gratitude. “You see, you’re already thinking like a Cyvasse player. You’re a natural.” For a moment, that dazzling yet seldom seen smile lit up her features, illuminating the dark antechamber brighter than any sconce.

Their banter was cut short as the twin doors to the throne room opened to admit their latest visitor, Jon Snow, bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and proclaimed King in the North.

* * *

Jon Snow stared out as the isle of Dragonstone grew closer. Even at this distance, it was large and imposing. The sight of three large dragons, creatures long believed extinct for centuries, did much to add to the intimidation factor of the huge stone castle that rose from its surface.

“Well, I’ll be buggered,” Ser Davos Seaworth muttered as he too gazed up at the three enormous figures dancing among the clouds. The largest one seemed to be flying a lazy circle around the smaller two. They darted in and out of close proximity, batting at each other with wing and clawed leg. It almost looked like they were fighting, but the third seemed somehow completely unconcerned with his companions antics.

“Are they playing?” Jon asked, incredulous.

Ser Davos was just as dumbfounded, but managed to nod. “Aye, they remind me of a couple of cats.”

“They’re a bit bigger than cats,” the younger man pointed out.

“True,” he admitted, “but it is reassuring in a way.” When Jon looked at him, puzzled, he added, “that they’re not just enormous fire-breathing monsters who live to burn everything in sight.”

“I suppose,” his companion reluctantly agreed. “Never thought I’d see a dragon.”

“I never thought I’d see a man rise from the dead,” Davos pointed out. “Interesting times, we live in.”

That got a laugh from the serious young man. “Interesting. That’s a word for it.” The journey from White Harbor had taken less than a fortnight and gone more smoothly than expected, but Jon couldn’t help but feel nervous. This strange queen’s missive bidding him to come had been oddly worded. He’d expected a demand to come and bend the knee, but it came off more like an invitation to a feast than a royal demand. Yet that fact made him feel more uneasy, not less.

“C’mon, your Grace, we’ve got to make ready to land. Don’t want to keep a Queen waiting.”

Jon turned to follow his newfound friend and trusted advisor . “Learn that in your many years of smuggling, did you?”

“Lad, every man should know to never keep a lady waiting. The fact that she’s a Queen just means she’s got the legal authority to execute you for it.”

“I think she has a great many more reasons to take my head than that.”

“True,” admitted the Onion Knight, “but why add another to the list?”

* * *

Another two hours passed before they finally reached the beach. Before they’d gotten too close, a ship bearing the banner of the Iron Fleet challenged them, and escorted them the rest of the way to the island once they announced their reason for coming. The raven they’d sent ahead had been received, and the Queen’s forces had been told to expect them.

Jon left the rest of his men aboard, deciding there was no need to risk any more lives than necessary. There was a very real chance this could go very badly, and if it did, there’d be no figthing their way out. At least if his men stayed with the ship, they’d have a chance to escape, however small.

Together, Jon and Ser Davos climbed the steps to the keep, wind roaring around them threatening to tear the cloaks from them. Yet, the strange guards that lined the stairs to the fortress, with their tall spears and face-covering helmets, seemed completely unaffected. Jon noted their discipline with admiration. His former brethren on the Wall could have endured these conditions but not without grumbling and gather near the braziers that dotted the way up.

“Storm’s coming,” Davos commented, as he looked back, to the large angry clouds growing in the sky. “Looks like a bad one.”

Jon just nodded, not really paying them any heed. He’d gone inside his own head again, rehearsing what he’d say to the Dragon Queen, trying to find the perfect combination of words that would persuade a total stranger to believe his warnings of the Long Night to come.

After what seemed to be a climb up an endless series of stairs, first without the keep, and then within, the pair stood before a large set of double doors, made of carved wood and wrought iron. Upon their surface were the symbol of House Targaryen. Jon spared a moment to wonder where the doors had come from, as he highly doubted Stannis Baratheon kept them during his tenure as Lord of Dragonstone.

His musings were interrupted as the doors parted, opening to reveal the Dragon Queen, sitting resplendent on her intimidating stone throne. It looked as it the rock of the island itself had been molded into place, and the enormous keep had merely been built around it. Behind the jagged back was a triangular window looking out over the bay, but nothing could be seen from it. Instead, the lighting served to highlight its occupant.

Regarding this monarch, Jon had heard only stories, but even then, he’d built up an image of what she looked like. But when he finally laid eyes up on her, his first thought was to marvel at how small she was. She and Arya’d have been about the same size, he imagined, before pushing the grief over his lost little sister to the back of his mind. She was out there, somewhere, she had to be, but only he believed that. Sansa and all the rest had given her up for dead.

He also made note of the silver hair, a trademark of their bloodline, though he couldn’t tell if she had the lavendar eyes, at their current distance. She wore a long, dark gown that could have been a coat from the way it was cut. She’d certainly need one, on this island. While far from the oppressive cold of Castle Black, Jon had no doubt that any Southron ruler would find the environs chilly, at best. Adorning it was a silver chain that encirled her from right shoulder to the left side of her waist, like a baldrick. Atop it rested a three dragon heads, molded in silver.

Another woman, of darker skin and curly hair, that Jon could only assume came from somewhere in Essos, stood to the Queen’s right, and Tyrion Lannister, a man he’d not seen in years, stood at her left. He looked rather a bit worse for wear, what with the jagged scar down his face and the ill-kempt beard. Further back, in the shadows, a rotund bald man stood between the Queen and her Hand. The woman stepped forward. Her voice seemed to fill the chamber, as the pair of men approached the steps leading to the throne.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.” This last one said with such pride that it left no doubt as to what this woman had once been before coming into this queen’s service.

Jon was left at a loss for words, but Davos had expected something like this. He’d been at Stannis’ side long enough to know how much heralds loved rattling off titles and the like. He’d spent a good part of their voyage coming up with his own introduction for his new King. They’d pale in comparison to her lengthy list, but it was better than just announcing “Jon Snow, King in the North” if they wanted her to treat him as anything close to an equal.

Clearing his throat, Ser Davos Seaworth inhaled, and announced, “Your Grace, I give you Jon Snow, King in the North, Lord of Wintefell, Former Lord-Commander of the Night’s Watch, Protector of the Free Folk, the White Wolf, the Reborn...”

Jon had already turned slightly to cast a disbelieving glance at his Hand and the list of titles he’d granted him without so much as asking, but when the last one echoed across, the room, he snapped at his Hand, “That’s enough!”

The vehemence of the statment was not lost on anyone in the room. “That’s a very interesting list of titles,” the silver-haired young woman commented, in a very guarded, netural tone.

“They pale compare to your own, your Grace,” the Northron leader replied, hoping to deflect the questions no doubt many, if not all, wished to ask. He should have known that royalty would not be so easily deterred.

“Nonetheless, I find the whole thing rather intriguing. Jon Snow, yes?”

He nodded, knowing where this was going. “Aye, I’m the bastard son of Ned Stark, but the last one living, as well. The lords of the North proclaimed me his heir when I retook Winterfell from the Boltons.”

An expression that one could have called sympathetic appeared on the queen’s features. “My condolences on your losses. I know all too well what it’s like to be the last scion of a once-great house. But your noble father still has a trueborn daughter, does he not?”

“Aye, Sansa, my sister.”

“Then why is she not Queen?”

His gaze flickered down to the floor. “The lords of the North are… set in their ways, your Grace. They preferred a bastard son as their liege-lord to a trueborn daughter.”

“One of many ill-conceived notions I intend to do away with when I re-take the Iron Throne.” Daenerys’s carefully guarded expression never wavered. “And is she accepting of this?”

“More or less,” he admitted. “To tell the truth, I would give the crown to Sansa, if I thought the lords would accept it. I never wanted to be king of anything.”

She regarded him intensely for a moment. “What do you want?”

“To know my place in the world,” he said simply, feeling no need to pretend to this woman. He needed her help, and if she perceived him telling her anything less than the truth, it could cost the world everything. “To find a place to belong; a home.”

The royal mask never changed, but a second, Jon could swear he saw something flicker behind her eyes when he said those words: understanding, as well as sympathy.

“And have you found it, as King of the North?”

“No, your Grace,” came the admission. “But the North has declared me their leader, so I will serve them to the best of my ability, for as long as I am able.”

She actually looked down at her hands for a moment, before looking back up to him, this time a slight smile pulling at the corner of her face. “A crown is burden, not a gift,” came her own confession. “I’ve found those that think otherwise make poor rulers.”

Relaxing for just a second, he gave her one of his own, and jested “Makes you wonder why anyone would willingly seek one out.”

Silence fell over the room for a long moment like a veil, as Jon realized what exactly he’d just implied. He’d come to beg her aid, not insult her life’s work.

If anything, she seemed more amused than insulted. Instead, she changed to subject to one he’d have much rather avoided. “What about the rest of your illustrious titles? The King in the North is obvious, but former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is one I find puzzling.”

“How so, your Grace?”

“I was under the impression that vows to the Night’s Watch were for life.”

“You have the right of it.”

“So you’re an oathbreaker, then.”

Jon stiffened at the accusation, and turned his gaze to the older man standing beside him. Ser Davos took the hint.

“The current Lord Commander released him from his vows, due to extenuating circumstances.”

“And what circumstances would those be?”

The two men shared a look. Finally, Jon shrugged in defeat. She wanted an answer, and would not let this go until she had one. This was not how he wanted things to go at all. “I died, your Grace.”

Tyrion spoke at last. “You… died.”

“You look remarkably well for a dead man,” she pointed out, one delicate eyebrow arching upward, echoing the disbelief the others in her retinue undoubtedly felt. “I take it this is where ‘the Reborn’ comes from?”

Wincing, Jon tried desperately to divert the situation away from the topic at hand. “My Hand overstepped himself with my titles, your Grace, I apologize. Please, pay them no heed.”

“And yet, heed them, I will. I take my titles very seriously, as I endured much to gain each one. I assume you did no less, unless you’re a braggart, something I very much doubt given how uncomfortable this is clearly making you.”

Once again, he winced. Not only was this something he was loathe to discuss, this was also distracting them from the reason he’d come, over the objections of Sansa and the other lords. “The tale is a long one, and I will be happy to indulge your curiosity and tell you it in its entirety, if you command it.” Bowing his head, he continued, “I merely ask if I may do so in at a later, and perhaps less public, time.”

That made her other brow lift to join the other, and the bemused smile grow. “Are you trying to get me alone, King in the North?”

Red filled his cheeks, which were thanfully obscurred by his beard. “That’s not what I meant at all, you Grace. I merely wished for a less formal setting.”

“Forgive me, I’m teasing you, and its unfair. You’ve only recently come into your crown, and I imagine I am the first fellow monarch you’ve had to treat with.”

Jon nodded. “You imagine correctly.”

“Then I shall save your interrogation for another time. Let us return to the business of your visit.” Davos, Tyrion, and the herald at the queen’s side both had to repress smiles at the sullen young king’s obvious relief.

“Thank you, you Grace. I’ve come before you to request your aid against a foe, far worse than Cersei Lannister.”

The queen face remained placcid, but Jon could see a flicker of curiosity behind her eyes. “And does so grave a foe have a name?”

“The Night King.”

Silence reigned over the hall.

“You’re joking,” spoke the Queen’s hand.

Jon leveled his gaze as the Lannister across the room from him. “When we last met, did I strike you as someone humorous?”

“No,” he admitted, trying to smother a smile at what a dour and brooding young man Jon Snow had been when they’d parted ways at the Wall.

“Did I strike you prone to whims of fancy or delusion?”

Again came, “No.”

“The Night King,” repeated the young Targaryen. “If I’m not mistaken, was he not a former commander of the Night’s Watch, who supposedly fell in love with a woman who turned out to be a White Walker, and somehow became one himself?”

“Aye, Brandon Stark, one of my ancestors.” Jon nodded, ignoring the pain that flickered in his breast, as he thought of Bran, his youngest brother, who shared his name. “I don’t know if it’s the same man, but someone who fits that title leads the Army of the Dead. It is real. I’ve fought them, the white walkers, all of it, and it’s moving south.”

One didn’t need to be master of the social graces to see the skepticism written all over this foreign queen’s face. Yet, rather than calling him a fool or a liar straight to his face, she and her Hand shared a glance. When Lord Tyrion nodded, as if to confirm some unspoken question, she asked, “I don’t suppose you have any proof of this?”

Jon could only shake his head, “No, your Grace. The dead don’t exactly let themselves be taken prisoner.”

“Pity.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “You should know, Jon Snow, that I summoned you because I was asked to.”

“By who?”

“Whom,” Ser Davos corrected with a whisper.

“Lady Melisandre, a Red Priestess of the Lord of Light, asked me to summon you, that you would tell me who the true enemy is.”

Ser Davos tensed, but Jon raised a hand for him to hold his questions. It took the man a moment to compose himself again, but he held his tongue. “So you believe me?”

The queen was silent for a long moment. “Let us say that I am inclined to not dismiss your claims out of hand.” Daenerys stood from her throne, and came down a step closer to the pair. “Most people would call you mad, that what you describe is impossible. They would have said the same thing about my dragons. If one can return to the world, why not the other?”

“Does that mean you’ll aid us?” Jon’s heart pounded in his chest. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined her believing in his tale so easily.

“I would very much like to, but I have a war of my own that I am embroiled in. I cannot abandon it at a moment’s notice. Nor would my allies approve my doing so, merely on the word of one man.”

And there was the catch. “No offense meant, your Grace, but the politics and squabbles of the Seven Kingdoms mean little when the army of the dead is coming to end all life and bring an endless winter.”

“If what you claim is true, you would be correct,” she agreed, taking another step down. “However, the North is many weeks of travel away, whereas King’s Landing is but days. Would it not make far more sense to end one war quickly before shifting focus to the other?”

Jon had spent days of the voyage puzzling out that very conundrum. Dragonstone and King’s Landing were at opposite ends of Blackwater Bay. True, the bay was so long neither could see the other, but the North was further still. As frustrating as it was, he had no easy answer to that dilemma. “Aye,” he murmured, unhappy at the thought.

“Do not despair, Jon Snow,” came the voice of this strange woman, causing him to once again lift his gaze, only to find her standing a few feet away from him. “We will find a way to win both our wars, and save those to whom we’ve sworn to protect.”

For a moment, he was disappointed that her eyes were not the lavendar of myth, but instead a striking blue. Not every Targaryen had been silver-haired and lavendar-eyed, he knew, but still he’d hoped. That regret was short-lived as he came out from the fog of strategy and diplomacy to finally notice just how beautiful she was. It was when her mouth began to curve into a tiny smile, that he realized he’d begun to stare.

“Thank you, your Grace,” he murmured, pulling up what was left of his kingly dignity. “Do you have a suggestion as to how we will do that?”

“Not yet,” she admitted, casting a glance to her Hand, “but I have very clever advisors who have a mind for such things. You two must be tired from your long journey. Let my guards show you to your rooms, where you may clean up and relax. I will go speak with my council and inform them of the danger in the North. Why don’t you join us two hours hence? I will have Missandei,” she nodded to the woman acting as her herald, “come and escort you to the chamber when we’re ready for you.”

“No need, your Grace, I know the way,” Ser Davos informed her. When she looked at him quizzically, Tyrion chimed in.

“He was Hand of the King to Stannis Baratheon, after his brother died, during the War of the Five Kings. Stannis did much of his military planning here.”

“I see,” she said simply. The Queen was clearly not fond of hearing about the man who killed her father, or his kin, but she was skilled enough to not let it show. “Nonetheless, Missandei will escort you, so the guards know you have leave to be wandering the halls.”

“We’re not prisoners, then?” Jon asked.

“No, Jon Snow. You are our guests, and will be treated as such.”

The two men bowed their head in gratitude. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“We’ll speak again shortly,” she assured him, before turning and striding away, Lord Tyrion following after her.

Jon watched her departure with such focus, he failed to notice the Queen’s herald approach them, to escort them to their accommodations. “This way, your Grace,” the woman, Missandei, he recalled, gestured for them to follow. The pair followed, Jon’s thoughts once again turned back to the dangers threatening his home.

* * *

It hadn’t taken long for the Queen’s Council to reconvene in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Unfortunately, this one was proving far less productive than the one previous. After they’d explained Jon’s Snow’s warning regarding the Army of the Dead, her allies made it clear they believed not a word.

“He’s insane,” Yara Greyjoy proclaimed simply, shaking her head.

Ellaria Sand was quick to agree, “the Army of the Dead is just a myth, a story told to scare Northern children.”

“Dragons were myths, too,” Lady Olenna pointed out, which clearly rankled the Dorn woman.

“Are you saying you believe him?” she asked, mockery dripping from her tongue. “Perhaps age is finally beginning to cloud your reason, old woman.”

The head of House Tyrell snorted in disdain, “At least I’d have a reason. What would be your excuse?”

“Ladies,” Tyion cut in, feeling a headache rise in his temples, “if we could focus for a moment.” Ellaria’s glare could have roasted Olenna as surely as Drogon’s breath, but the Queen of Thorns remained as cool as the White Walkers they were discussing.

The queen continued to stand over the table, studying it in contemplation, so her Hand took it upon himself to lead the discussion. They’d already discussed it amongst themselves as they waited for the group to re-assemble.

“We are not merely taking the King in the North at his word,” he reminded them. “The Lady Melisandre urged us to invite him to discuss another enemy, and her words have proven prophetic.”

“So we’re taking the words of soothsayers, now?” asked the would-be queen of the Iron Islands.

“The Red Priestesses are strange, but they have power,” informed Ellaria. “While I do not believe in this Red God of theirs, they have shown remarkable insights when they’ve visited the courts.”

“So witches then,” huffed Yara. “That’s hardly an improvement.”

“Your Grace,” came a new voice to the discussion. The room looked to Lady Yara’s brother, Theon. The young man had been present in every meeting, but had always stayed quiet, by his sister’s side. By rights, he was the eldest child of Balon Greyjoy, but he’d ceded any desire for their crown to his sister. While the stories of what had happened to him in the care of Ramsey Bolton were just rumor, one had to only look at him to see him as the broken husk he clearly was.

Daenerys looked to him, and nodded for him to continue. “While I was,” he looked down, shamefully, “while I was in Winterfell, we had one of the wildlings as a prisoner and later a serving girl. We captured her when she and two of her fellows assaulted Bran Stark and tried to hold him ransom.” He paused in his story, and his gaze seemed to stare off into the distance as if there were a ghost on the far side of the room that only he could see.

“Theon,” he sister urged softly, drawing him back.

“When we asked her why they were south of the wall, she claimed that things were moving in the Land of Always Winter,” he informed them. “That the wights were roaming the forests once more, and that they were all trying to find a way south.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” muttered Lady Olenna.

Theon seemed to pull into himself for a moment, but he seemed to find something in himself, and met the older woman’s piercing gaze. “She was dirty and rough and uneducated, but she weren’t stupid,” the former Stark ward informed her, his voice firmer than they’d ever heard. “I didn’t believe her at the time. None of us did, but if Jon Snow says the white walkers are coming for us, you can believe its true.”

“And why do you say that?” Tyrion asked, truly curious by young Greyjoy’s sudden outburst.

“Because Starks don’t lie,” he answered. “And he’s not crazy. Jon Snow was a brooding little bastard, but he was sharp, and as honest as his father.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion caught his queen smothering a tiny smile at the image of a young brooding Jon, sitting in a corner with a little storm cloud over his head. He suddenly found himself thankful the two had never met when they were teenagers all those years ago. He could only imagine the disaster that would have followed that particular love-lorn adolescent romance.

The room seemed to mull that over for a moment. So far, Tyrion, Melisandre, and Theon had all vouched for Jon Snow’s character and sanity.

“I believe,” Danaerys intoned, finally joining the discussion, “that he believes it, and I do not doubt his sanity.”

“What about you, Lord Varys,” Olenna inquired of the other silent observer on their council. “You were there. You’re not a man given to prophecies and superstition. What do you think?”

As the room’s attention focused on him, the Spider took a moment to consider his next words very carefully. “I concur with our Queen and Hand. He believes what he says. But that doesn’t necessarily make it true.”

“Perhaps,” Tyrion interject, “we should hear from the man directly, and let him make his case.” Murmurs of assent echoed around the table. Daenerys confirmed it with a nod. A moment later, Missandei emerged from the hallway, followed closely by their two Northern guests.

“Thank you for seeing us again so soon, Your Grace,” replied Jon Snow, giving her a small bow.

“Jon Snow, King in the North,” she began, taking a moment to enjoy him tensing as he braced for the recitation of titles Davos had pulled from his nethers, before setting him at ease, “and other assorted titles, may I introduce you to my council and allies. You are already acquainted with Lord Tyrion of House Lannister, my Hand, and Missandei of Naath.”

Seeing Jon nod, Tyrion took over for his queen with her permission. Starting Danaerys’ left, he went around the table. “Lady Yara Greyjoy, and her brother, Theon, of whom you’re acquainted.” Jon’s gaze went positively frosty as he regarded his former companion.

“Aye, I do,” and his words were laced with something dark and violent. Yara picked up on it immediately, and opened her mouth to comment, but Tyrion decided it was best to move on before yet another argument broke out.

“Lady Olenna of House Tyrell.” Again, Jon nodded.

“My condolences on the loss of your family, my lady,” he offered, but she waved him off without a word.

“Lady Ellaria Sand of Dorn,” came next. Tyrion couldn’t help but note Jon’s surprise at another bastard being in the room, much less being called a Lady. Nonethelees, he continued. “Lord Varys.” The two simply exchanged nods.

Finally, he came to another man, this one dressed in armor, and of the same complexion as Missandei. “Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied.”

“Forgive me, but I’m not familiar with the group,” said the young king, so Tyrion took it upon himself to explain.

“The Unsullied were mercenaries, of a sort, taken as boys by the Good Masters of Yunkai, gelded, and trained as soldiers from a young age. The Masters typically sold their services to whoever could pay. They’re also the only standing force to ever defeat a Dothraki horde,” he added, thankful Qhono wasn’t there to here him.

“Slaves,” Jon said, with horror. “You bought them?”

“She freed us,” Grey Worm cut in. His words were heavily accented and rough, but there was no mistaking the tone of absolute conviction in his voice. “She bade us slay the Masters, and gave us our freedom. We choose to follow our queen.”

There was still a hint of skepticism in Jon’s eyes, and Tyrion could hardly blame him. Jon Snow was used to dealing with Southron rules like Cersei. “Apologies, your Grace, Grey Worm. I meant no offenses.”

“Accepted,” said the queen, and Grey Worm nodded. “Back to the business at hand, it would seem my advisors find your claims a bit difficult to believe.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” muttered the Lady of Highgarden. The headache grew, and Tyrion rubbed at his temple, but his queen made no comment of her own, and continued.

“I would like you to answer any questions they have, and tell us what aid you seek.”

Agreeing, Jon took a place at the foot of the table and began his tale, starting with the wight they brought unknowingly into Castle Black. It didn’t take a political mastermind to see that few remained convinced. Even Tyrion himself had a more than healthy skepticism about the whole thing. And yet, part of him wanted to believe Jon.

“If that’s all you’ve got, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time,” Olenna told him, but Jon just shook his head.

“No, that was the first time I saw a wight, but it wasn’t the last. But it wasn’t until I went to Hardhome that I truly understood the threat.”

“Hardhome?” asked Ellaria.

“A harbor town of the Free Folk,” not wildlings, Tyrion noted. “We went there with boats to help their people evacuate down south.”

“You brought wildlings south of the Wall,” a disbelieving Yarra asked. “I’m surprised the Watch didn’t hang you for a traitor.”

Something akin to pain flickered across Jon’s face, and Tyrion began to understand the young man’s reluctance to discuss his so-called death. Had the Night’s Watch tried and failed? Then this whole “reborn” business could simply have been a convenient excuse to remove him from power and exile him from the Watch.

For his part, Jon simply ignored the comment and continued. “As we were moving them out, the army of the dead breached the walls and overran us. Hundreds of Free Folk died to get their kin on the boats to safety. I fought a White Walker, and killed him.”

“How,” Danaerys asked?

“With Valyrian steel, he explained. “A gift to me from the Lord Commander Mormont.”

At the mention of Mormont, the Hand of the Queen caught his liege’s own flicker of heartache, for her other trusted advisor, one Tyrion knew would be wearing the pin rather him, if he’d been here.

“That’s quite a gift,” Lady Olenna responded, her look of skepticism fading a bit. “I knew Lord Mormont before he took the Black. He was a good man. I found him to be man of excellent judgment. For a northerner.”

The King in the North bristled at her tone, but pressed on. “When he died, many of the wights fell with him. Apparently, if you kill a White Walker, you also destroy any of the dead it raised.”

“So you won,” Ellaria interjected. “Sever the head, the body dies. Would that most armies were so easily defeated.”

Tyrion could sense Jon’s frustration as he shook his head. “There were at least half a dozen White Walkers leading the assuault. Two on the battlefield, and four sitting atop rotting horses on a cliffside.”

“That’s rather dramatic,” murmured Varys.

“Is this when you saw the Night King?” the Queen asked, sitting forward, elbows resting on the table, looking more like a young girl enjoying a bard’s tale in that moment.

“Aye, as we making out way out on the last boat, another Walker came out of the mob. He was different than the others, he looked closer to human, but he had… horns almost like a crown of ice, around his head. He strode out to the edge of land and just looked at us as we sailed off.”

His voice grew distant as the memory took him back. “He looked right at me, and just slowly lifted his arms, and as he did, all those who had fallen, rose to their feet, and looked back at us with the cold blue eyes of the wights from the shore. It was like he wanted me to see, to understand just how fucked we all were.”

Silence reigned over the table, until Tyrion finally broke it. “The dead have a flare for the theatrical. I think that may actually be more terrifying than raising the dead itself.”

The joke landed with a thud, but at least it seemed to diffuse the tension lingering over the chamber.

“The Wall has kept them out for thousands of years,” Olenna pointed out. “What has changed?”

It didn’t take a genius to note that the looks of skepticism and derision had faded from the those around the table, to be replaced with concern and even a bit of fear.

“The Night’s Watch is barely eight hundred strong,” Jon told them. “We can only maintain three of the keeps along the Wall: Castle Black and Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower. If they find a route through, then we’d be hard pressed to respond in time. Not that we have enough men to do more than sound an alarm before joining their ranks ourselves,” he noted with more than a little bitterness.

Varys and Tyrion looked to their Queen, whose face had grown grave as his story continued. “What do you want from us?” she put simply.

“To unite our forces. If we don’t stand together, then we’ll die. Doesn’t matter who sits the Iron Throne, the dead will sweep us all away unless they’re stopped.”

“Impossible,” Olenna exclaimed, “if we turn our forces North, Cersei will take advantage, possibly even attack us from behind. That would prove as disastrous than ignoring the threat all together.”

“I agree,” said the lady from Dorne, and it was clear the act of agreeing with the Queen of Thorns physically hurt. “We cannot ignore Cersei. Even if we believe you, she will not.”

The frustration on Jon’s face was plain, and Tyrion felt for him. He’d been in a similar position with Cersei and Joffrey’s court, trying to make them understand what needed to be done, but neither willing to listen to reason. “Is there a more immediate aid we can give,” he offered, glancing to his queen. She nodded her agreement, so he carried on, “something we can offer you while we discuss the larger picture.”

Jon’s fists clenched on the edge of the table, but he bit back whatever retort he clearly wanted to make. “Dragonglass,” he said. “I received a raven from a friend of mine at the Citadel in Oldtown. Apparently, Dragonstone has large deposits of dragonglass.”

The queen as well as her advisors looked surprised, as none of them had ever heard of such a thing. “Why dragonglass?” Tyrion asked.

“It can kill the dead, just like Valyrian steel. Something to do with the dragonfire used to create both,” offered the other man.

“Do you know where these deposits can be found? Daenerys asked. When Jon nodded, she told him, “then you have our permission to mine the dragonglass and take what you need. I can task our forges to assist you with molding them into weapons.”

Relief as well as gratitude replaced some of the frustration on the King in the North’s pale features. “Thank you, your Grace. With your permission, I’ll have my men come ashore and begin mining.” When the queen nodded, the Northron duo left to return to their ship.

The chamber grew as silent as a tomb. Everyone was lost in thought, contemplating Jon Snow’s tale.

“It sounds like a campfire story, and yet…” Varys let his words trail off.

“They do ring of truth, don’t they?”” replied the Queen of Thorns, her own face pensive.

Ellaria rose and began to pace like a caged feline. “I want to call him mad, driven crazy by the loneliness of the Wall.”

“But he’s not,” Theon added, not with rebuke, but certainty. “You could hear it in his voice. The fear.”

Yara agreed with her brother. “That’s not something a man can fake. He may be mad, but if he is, he hides it better than most.”

“What does our Queen think?” asked Tyrion, cutting to the only point that really mattered.

All gazes shifted to Daenerys, who had risen to look out over the bay at the Northern ship anchored there. She mulled over her reply, knowing that what she said next could have dire consequences for her current alliances and quest for her family’s throne.

“I believe him,” she said softly. No one raised a voice in disagreement.

“Then the next question that has to be answered,” her Hand put forth, “is what are we prepared to do about it?” No one had an answer.

“The army of the dead is a threat that cannot be ignored, but we already engaged in a war of our own, one that we cannot simply halt as if at a tourney, and resume when we feel like it,” Daenerys pointed out.

“There are other ramifications, as well,” acknowledged the Spider. “The North is not an ally. He has not bent the knee and sworn fealty to the throne.”

Olenna snorted. “Good luck getting him to do that.”

Clearing his throat, Tyrion cut off the next debate that was about to erupt. “We clearly have much to think about. Why don’t we adjourn for day, and consider our options. We can reconvene tomorrow and see what alternatives lay before us.”

“I agree,” said the Queen, and that was the end of it. As the others left the room, she motioned for Tyrion to stay. When the room was clear, sat down with a sigh, her queenly mask coming off, at last.

“This is not going to have an easy answer,” he informed her. “This is a conundrum none of us could have predicted. I only see two options.”

“Let the North die while we secure Kings Landing, then face them ourselves, or go to the North’s aid, and risk Cersei coming from behind and destroying us,” answered the young monarch.

Daenerys looked to him, not as a queen, but as a person caught in terrible position with choices that left her damned no matter what course she chose. “Find me another option.”

“I’m not sure one exists,” he confessed, looking down to his feet in shame at the awful truth of it. His eyes turned upwards once again, when he felt her hand on his shoulder, however.

“If there is anyone who can find me one, it’s you,” she told him, and the certainty in her voice put iron into his backbone.

“Yes, my Queen.”

Again, she rewarded him with a small smile, as she corrected him. “Daenerys, remember?”

“Apologies,” he offered, “I think we’ll be postponing our cyvasse lessons, then.”

“Nonsense,” cut in the young woman. “If we waited for quiet times to relax, we’ll be resting in our tombs. Tonight, after dinner. I find inspiration often strikes when one takes their mind off their problems for a bit.”

“I’ll have the board set up and waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who read this story as I was releasing it, I had a slight format change, and have re-edited the early chapters to better fit this style. As such, some chapters were consolidated, which is why there are suddenly less chapters than originally.


	3. The Prodigal Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sits as the Lady of Winterfell as her brother Bran finally comes home, bearing an incredible story.

Nearly a fortnight and a half had passed since Jon had departed for Dragonstone at the behest of this foreign queen, Sansa noted to herself. Dawn’s approach was fading the blackness of night into muted grey as she gazed out her window towards the snow covered plains outside. Winter is here, she mused. Sleep had once again ended sooner than she’d have liked. 

_I can’t find rest here._ The stench of the Boltons lay on every stone. The usurpers had defiled her home as assured as Ramsey had defiled her with his touch. Still, it was fortunate he’d taken Robb’s old rooms as his his own when they were married. It meant her own former sanctuary was largely devoid of unpleasant memories. 

A knock came gently to her door, testing to see if she was awake, no doubt. And there was no doubt in her mind as who would be rousting her at this hour. “Come in, Brienne.”

The heavy oak door opened with a groan, admitting a tall, armored figure. Brienne of Tarth was not what most people would call “a proper lady.” She was rough, with short-cut hair, in a man’s style. She was large, too, for either gender, and the plate armor she wore only made her figure more imposing. 

“My Lady,” the heir to the island of Tarth bowed. “I saw light from beneath your door.”

“I can’t sleep,” she replied simply. 

“Perhaps the Maester,” began her guardian, but Sansa quickly cut her off.

“No. I don’t want essence of nightshade. It makes me sick.” A lie, but a small one. 

“Maester Wolkan is not of House Bolton,” the tall blonde reminded her mistress. “He served them as he would any other house. Maesters are …”

“What? Neutral?” Scorn dripped from her voice. “Honorbound? Ask my brother Robb how well oaths and honor served him.” 

Brienne began to respond, but another voice from behind her interjected first. “Your brother Robb broke his own vow of marriage to House Frey, which is what precipitated that betrayal.”

Inwardly, Sansa cringed at the sound of the all-too familiar voice. “Thank you, Lord Baelish, I am well aware of how Walder Frey justified his murdering of my family while under the protection of hospitality. I don’t need a history lesson, particularly from you.”

“Forgive me, my Lady.”

It took a great effort to keep from sighing. This was not how she wanted her day to begin. Fortunately, Brienne sensed this, and made sure to stay blocking the door.

Petyr Baelish, Lord-Protector of the Vale, glanced up at the taller woman. “I was hoping to speak with Lady Sansa alone.”

“And I was hoping to make it through the day without seeing your weasely little face,” Brienne fired back. “It seems we both need to get used to disappointment.” 

The placid, friendly mask Littlefinger liked to put forward, flickered for just a moment. In response, Brienne placed a hand upon her blade. 

“Lady Brienne,” interjected Sansa, “escort Lord Baelish to the main hall. We’ll break our fast then see what the lords of the North have for us today.” With a curt nod, Brienne stepped out into the hallway, driving Littlefinger before her. 

“You heard the Lady.” Lord Baelish relented, and allowed himself to be herded like a sheep. 

When the door closed again, Sansa allowed herself to finally drop the perfect posture of a noblewoman. It was becoming more and more difficulty to deal with Littlefinger. True, she’d called for his aid against the Boltons, but she never anticipated he’d linger around like a unwanted suitor. 

But isn’t that what he is? She wondered if this was how her mother had felt when Petyr Baelish had been her unwanted suitor so many years ago. A far more recent memory, of when he’d kissed her, came forward unbidden. That undesired gesture had ultimately resulted in the demise of her Aunt Lyssa. Not that her mother’s sister had been a bastion of sanity and kindness, herself. 

From Joffrey, to Cersei, to Littlefinger, to Ramsey: a long chain of abusers and tormentors lay in her past. But the two worst were dead, and she was home again. With any luck, that dragon bitch from Essos would burn the Red Keep down with Cersei trapped inside. 

That was a thought that made Sansa smile, a tiny dark little thing; the same one she’d given as she listened to Ramsey Bolton’s screams. Her only regret was, she’d not be there to see it. But Sansa had no intention of setting foot outside of Winterfell ever again, and she’d die before she wanted so much as another glimpse of King’s Landing.

A commotion in the yard drew her attention back to the real world. The guards seemed to be arguing with someone at the gate. Sansa moved to get a better look at what the cause of the disturbance was: a young woman, with dark curly hair, and a bow slung over her shoulder.

For a moment, Sansa had a wild hope that Arya had somehow survived and found her way home. But she was too tall, the redhead noted, as she tried to smother the sense of disappointment. 

It seemed the guards were concerned with the small cart she’d brought with her. Finally, they seemed content to admit her, and girl dragged her goods within the walls of the keep. It was an odd, makeshift thing, barely fit for carrying a few bags. But the cart didn’t carry goods or possessions. Instead, another person rode within.

And this one, she did recognize. Eyes widened with shock as Bran Stark looked up from his cart, and straight at her window. Sansa took off at a run, flinging open her door, barely remembering to sweep up her cloak as she passed by. 

Moving through the halls as fast as she could, she shouted for a servant to call for Maester Wolkan to meet her in the courtyard, and another to find Lady Brienne. She left the poor girls gaping with confusion in her wake, but they moved to do as she commanded. 

“BRAN!” The guards in the yard nearly jumped out of their skin as their lady burst from the keep at a full run. The muddied ground was still frozen from the chill night air, which probably helped her from falling flat upon her face. And then she was next to him, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

He’d gotten taller, leaner. His face was much narrower. Somehow he was still smooth-faced and hair cut clean. A tiny part of her wondered how he’d taken such good care of himself in all the time they’d been gone. His eyes, though, they were… distant. He looked at her, no, he was looking through her. His expression remained placid, as though she weren’t even there.

“Bran?” 

The girl whose presence she’d forgotten stepped around to the side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Bran,” she called softly, then gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. “Bran. You’re home.” 

And suddenly the strange trance he was in vanished in a blink. “Home,” he murmured, his throat raw and crackling, as if it had not been used in days. “Home.”

“Bran, it’s me. It’s Sansa!” she repeated, trying to get his attention.

“Sansa,” he repeated, then shook his head, as though trying to shake off a spider that had fallen into his face. “Sansa.” Finally, he looked up to her, really seeing her for the first time, and he smiled. “We’re in Winterfell.” 

“Yes!” Laughing, Sansa lunged forward nearly knocking the strange girl aside to give her brother a hug. “We made it home!”

“A bit worse for the wear,” he admitted. Bran seemed to hesitate at her touch, but then returned the hug. 

Finally, Sansa pulled away to let him get some air. “Where have you been? Jon said you made it beyond the Wall.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” the girl cut in. “If we’re going to tell this story, could be we do it inside where it’s warm? Some food too, would be nice.”

Tearing her attention away from her lost sibling, Sansa took a closer look at this girl. She was small, though not as small as Arya. Wild hair that was far less well-kept than Bran’s own. Her own eyes were keen, watching everything around them, and Sansa was left with the impression that the bow over her shoulder had seen a great deal of use. 

“I’m sorry, forgive my rudeness. Of course, you’re welcome to come inside. And you are?”

“Meera Reed,” introduced the young woman.

“Lord Reed’s daughter?” that surprised her almost as much as Bran coming home. The Reeds were notoriously reclusive. 

She nodded. “My father sent me and my brother to help Bran on his journey.”

A sad look passed over her face, and Sansa realized that their little party was one person short, if that were the case, which meant only one thing. “Please come inside, we’re about to break fast.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the Reed girl gave a half bow then moved to help Bran up, but the freshly arrived Brienne offered to do it instead. There was mo mistaking the gratitude from Meera as the stronger woman lifted him out of the cart with ease. With that, the entourage moved inside, for food, fire, and a long overdue tale.

* * *

Sansa had her brother taken back to his old room, and had the servants bring food to them, rather than sit in the drafty main hall. Extra chairs had to be brought in, making the room a bit crowded, but no one seemed to mind. Ned Stark’s eldest daughter was just happy to have another piece of her family back in Winterfell.

As they ate, Meera and Bran spun the story of how they made it past the Wall, found the Children of the Forest, and the Three-Eyed Raven of Bran’s dreams. It was all quite a bit much to take in, and Sansa was sure her skepticism showed on her face, plain as day. 

“You’re saying you’re not just a warg, but a greenseer?” 

Her brother just nodded as he took another bite of sausage. “It’s more complicated than that, but you have the right of it.” 

Even Brienne looked a little skeptical, as she stood, her back against the door, to ensure no unwanted intrusions. No doubt word of the young lord’s return was already making its way to every person in the keep, nevermind the North itself. “What exactly are those, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“A warg can enter the minds of animals, and control them. Most only use this power in their dreams, without ever truly realizing what they are,” Bran explained, his tone cool and distant. “Very few are born wargs. Even less wargs are born with the greensight.”

“It means they dream of the future,” cut in Meera. “My brother Jojen had the gift, too. It was how we knew to come and protect your brother.”

They lady of Winterfell regarded the other woman, her heart going out for her loss. “You gave your brother to save mine. House Stark owes you a debt we can never repay.”

The brunette nodded, looking away. 

“Hodor gave his life for us, as well.” Bran added, eyes shifting to his guardian and her obvious discomfort.

“I’m sorry, Bran. I know how much you cared for him.” Personally, Sansa found the strange large man more than a little off-putting, but he’d been there for her brother, and that was all that mattered. 

“So you can see the future?” asked Podrick Payne, Brienne’s squire. 

The crippled young man seemed to search for the words. “I can see all of time, past, present, and future.” 

“That’s got to be handy, knowing everything.” 

“I don’t know everything,” he tried to explain. “It’s like… being in a library where everything is written down, for you to use.”

“You have access to all that knowledge,” Brienne replied, understanding dawning on her, “but first you have to know what to look for.” 

“That’s it,” he exclaimed, his voice sounding excited for the first time since arriving. “Also, the future isn’t… written yet. It’s being rewritten all the time, by every choice we make. What may be the future one day, may be another the next.” 

“What about what’s happening right now?” asked Sansa, growing more curious as to how this all worked.

“That’s trickier. I know everything that happens near a heart tree.” That was disappointing, as outside the North, all the godswoods had been felled. “But I can take the minds of animals and travel. I can see and hear what they do.”

“How’s that useful?” asked Podrick. 

“Given how many ravens are in every castle, I’d say it gives him eyes and ears in every keep in the Seven Kingdoms,” retorted Sansa. “Bran, that’s… amazing.”

Her younger brother cracked a faint smile. “I would hope so. It cost much to achieve.” 

With that proclamation, the mood in the room soured. “Why don’t we let you rest for a bit? I’m sure the journey back was rough.” Bran just nodded, so they quickly cleared the room out.

“Sansa,” called out Bran, before she left. “Can you give the maester this?” He held up a scroll of paper. 

“What is it?” she asked, taking the scroll from him.

“A design for a chair Daeron Targaryen made for his nephew.” 

She nearly asked how he got the design, before realizing they’d already discussed the answer to that with the others. So she just nodded, gave her brother another quick hug, one that he returned promptly this time, and left the room.

Outside, she found Meera waiting for her in the hall. “My lady, there’s something you need to know.” When Sansa gestured for her to continue, the young Reed explained, “I can already see how you’re thinking about using hist gift.” 

When Sansa made to protest, cheeks flushed with a mixture of indignation not only of the accusation, but the truth in its words, Meera just cut her off. “Don’t deny it. Any sane person would. But you need to understand.”

“Understand what?” 

“That when he uses the greensight, he loses himself.”

“Loses himself how?”

The brunette fumbled for the words to make her understand. “The longer he goes away, looking at the past or hunting for the future, he grows… cold. Less... human. You saw how he was when we arrived.” 

Sansa could only nod. The distant looks, the flat way of speaking, and that hug, like he’d had to remember what a hug even was, and how to give one. She’d thought nothing of it at the time, but now it made her skin crawl. 

“If he uses the sight too much, for too long, you may lose your brother all over again. His body may go on, his mind may be there, but his heart, that will have died, and he’ll be nothing but the Three-Eyed Raven, in truth.”

Not that Sansa really understood the old man in the cave and what being a raven had to do with anything, but there was no denying the concern in the other woman’s voice. 

“I can’t keep him from using his gift,” she tried to explain, but Meera shook her head.

“I know, and he will use it. I just ask that you not ask him to use it more than necessary, for his sake and yours.” 

Nodding, Sansa looked back at the shut door of Bran’s room. “I’ll have the room next to his made up for you.” Rickon’s room, she noted to herself. She’d yet to bring herself to even go inside. 

“Thank you, my lady.” 

“I would also welcome your council, as a representative of House Reed.”

“Forgive me, but that’s not really…”

“Winter is here, and the Reeds currently have no one here to speak for them.” 

Slowly, Meera nodded in acceptance. “I’ll need to send a raven to my father. To let him know that I’m here.” And about what happened to his son, no doubt, but Sansa kept that to herself. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, Lady Reed,” came the formal greeting. 

“Meera’s fine,” the other woman insisted. “I’m not a lady.” 

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “My sister would have liked you.”

“That’s a compliment, I hope.”

Her thoughts drifted to those of her sister, wondering again what had become of her. They’d fought constantly, and their last words had been hateful and cruel. The idea that Arya could have died thinking she hated her, or worse still, a traitor for defending Joffrey as she had. 

“Very much.”

* * *

The news of Bran’s arrival had already reached the assembled lords. As such, the assembly was in a tither before she’d even had a chance to take her seat.

“My lords and ladies, please,” she called out, her voice ringng through the chamber. Her tone of authority brought a degree of order to the proceedings, dropping the chatter to a low murmuring. “What you’ve heard is true, my brother, Brandon Stark, has been returned us.”

“Is he well,” asked Lady Lyanna Mormont? 

“He is,” she confirmed. “He’s tired and weak, though. He’s spent a great deal of time in the wilds north of Winterfell.” It was best not to explain he’d actually gone beyond the Wall. That would have only set off even more questions. “He’s currently resting in his room.” 

“How did a broken boy survive in the wilds alone,” Lord Glover wondered.

“He wasn’t alone,” Meera Reed interjected. “My brother and I helped spirit him away from the castle during the Greyjoy usurpation. Along with his friend, Hodor, we kept him alive and safe.” 

“Why not seek shelter with one of the lords, or your own father?” 

“We knew they’d be looking for us if we headed south, Lord Manderley,” explained the young woman, “and given what happened to young Rickon, I’d say we chose well to avoid the shelter of untrustworthy lords.” 

“Untrustworthy!’ The stout, white-haired warrior lept to his feet and closed a hand over the hilt of his sword. Young Meera didn’t seem to react, but Sansa caught her hand laying casually near a knife on her belt. 

“Lord Manderley, that’s enough,” snapped Sansa. “House Reed safeguarded the life of my brother from the Boltons, and brought him home safe to us, when House Umber sold my brother to them. Remind me, where were you when Ramsey Bolton shot an arrow through Rickon’s chest?” 

The red flush of rage quickly gave way to the lighter pink of shame. House Manderley had not sent men to either side of that battle. “You’re right, my lady.” He bowed to the Lady of Winterfell, then turned back to Meera. “Forgive me, Lady Reed. All of the North owes you for protecting the last trueborn son of Ned Stark.” Meera simply nodded, and with that Lord Manderley retook his seat.

And there it was, Sansa noted. Bran was the last son of their father, born to their mother, unlike Jon. She expected they’d soon demand he take over as the Stark in Winterfell. If he’d been whole, she’d no doubt many would prefer him to a bastard as their king, but Northmen were warriors. Jon had earned their respect on the battlefield, something poor Bran could never do. 

Young lady Lyanna decided to take the conversation back in a more productive direction. “Has their been any word from the King?” 

“A raven arrived last night. They reached Dragonstone safely and were about to head to shore.”

The grumbling returned. The lords had not been happy that the Jon had ignored their counsel and gone to this would-be foreign queen to request aid. More than a few of them expected he’d never return. For once, Sansa shared these fears. 

The rest of the session devolved into the usual reports of their food stores, and other matters. After a while, they all went their separate ways, and Sansa took to the battlements. The fields of the North, white with snow mixed with brown earth and grass, stretched out before her. The chill wind bit into her skin, forcing her to pull her thick cloak tighter around her.

A huge, angry looking storm filled the horizon off to the South. Maester Wolken had assured her the storm was headed south, and would not trouble them. Still, she’d never seen one like it before. Even from the great distance, it boded ill, and she wondered if it would reach as far as Jon down at Dragonstone. 

Closing her eyes, Sansa offered a silent prayer to the Old Gods that her brother made it home safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and feedback, and most importantly, patience while all my actors find their marks.


	4. A Royal Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back on Dragonstone, Jon and Dany get to know each other better, the Imp and the Spider discuss the future, and an unexpected guest comes for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this, but this is about three times as long as the previous chapters. Thanks to my beta readers, CinnamonBurns and Thaser, for the feedback. And thanks to all of you for your comments and kudos. I appreciate you sticking with the story this long, and I hope this chapter is a bit more entertaining than the last 5 chapters of setup.

**DRAGONSTONE**

Rain pounded the shores of Dragonstone. The storm had struck with a ferocity the likes of which Jon Snow had never seen before. It was almost beautiful, in its way, the way the tempest stirred the seas. From the mouth of the dragonglass cave, the young man watched as the waves crashed and the skies rumbled in their fury. 

Behind him, his men continued to wrest the precious mineral from the rock. Ser Davos had requested a small boat and taken it to King’s Landing. Apparently, he knew a talented smith that would be useful in forging their spoils into practical weapons quickly. His Hand assured him, he knew several ways safely in and out of the city, promising to return in just a few days. Jon had little choice but to agree. The reigns of Theon Greyjoy and Ramsey Bolton had left Winterfell lacking in talented craftsmen. 

Just the thought of Theon raised the hackles on the back of Jon’s neck, and to see him here, as an ally of this strange queen, only rankled him further. The sister, Yara, had clearly sensed the animosity, because she’d sent him off with Daenerys’ troops, to ferry them to their next battle, no doubt. Everyone had been quite circumspect in where they were going, which was only natural. They weren’t enemies, but neither were they allied.

Still, Jon thought, I never expected to get this far so easily. Honestly, he still waited for her to demand his presence in that cold imposing throne room, expecting him to bend the knee to her. But so far, they’d barely spoken since that last meeting in the Chamber of the Painted Table a few days hence. 

The King in the North counted himself grateful, as he was sure she’d pressure him for more stories about the list of damnable titles Ser Davos had foisted off on him, without so much as a word of warning. But they’d only been on Dragonstone a few days, and Jon had busied himself with the mining operation, returning to the keep only to rest and clean up. He took food with his men, from the stores they’d brought on their ship. He doubted anyone here was eager to have him poisoned, but Sansa had made the suggestion, and he saw no harm in taking some basic precautions.

He was a king after all. 

King. Just the title alone made him want to laugh. Jon had never, in all his wildest imaginings, entertained the slightest notion of being king of anything. His fondest wish was to simply be “Jon Stark” and to serve at Robb’s side as Lord of Winterfell. But Robb was dead, along with their father and little Rickon. No one had heard anything about Arya since their father’s execution. Even Baelish claimed to have heard nothing of her since Joffrey moved against their family. 

A voice in the distance disrupted Jon’s revelry, as a figure approached through the tempest outside. It was short in stature, leaving little doubt as to who approached, though Jon wondered what would possibly bring Tyrion Lannister out of warm, dry walls of the keep in this weather.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon gave him a small respectful bow of his head, as the other man quickly joined Jon beneath the shelter of the cave. “Didn’t take you for the type to enjoy this weather.”

“I’m not,” he assured the other man. “The queen has requested your presence this evening.”

“Has something happened?”

“No, I believe she has some things she’d like to discuss with you.” Tyrion hesitated before adding, “Over dinner.” 

Jon stared at the dwarf in surprise. “I… would be honored,” stammered the young man for a brief moment, before recovering himself. “Though I fail to see why she’d send her own Hand out in this to deliver a simple message.” 

Tyrion wiped water off his face with the inside of his cloak. He’d moved against the wind to reach the cave. “She didn’t. She was going to have an Unsullied inform you, but I chose to perform this task myself. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

Jon motioned for him to move closer to the lip of the entrance and away from his men. Just inches from the two men, water came down in sheets, some slightly splashing on them as they landed nearby. 

“I wanted to know if you had thoughts on a formal alliance,” Tyrion finally asked, looking up at the taller man, his face a carefully crafted neutral mask. 

Jon hated politics, but tried not to let his exasperation show. “Aye, I have.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, until Tyrion finally prodded. “And what conclusion have you come to?”

“My people would say that your war isn’t our problem.” Well, that was bluntly put, Tyrion noted. 

“One could argue that neither is your own crisis, at least not for the foreseeable future.”

“Aye,” admitted the young monarch. “But they’d be fools. If the North falls, the army of the dead will be significantly larger, and you’ll be weakened by your war for a bloody chair.” 

“The Iron Throne is the symbol of power over this kingdom. You may not understand our Queen’s desire for it, but she seeks to unite and improve the lives of her subjects, and that’s something she can only do from ‘that bloody chair.’”

“I understand that, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re all,” he hesitated for a moment, but given the informal nature of this, he threw diplomacy out into the raging winds, “you’re all squabbling over who gets to wear a crown while death itself bears down on us. It doesn’t matter who sits atop the Iron Throne, because no matter who wins your war, it will be the Night King who will hold it in the end.” 

The sky lit on fire as lightning seemed to streak between the clouds for a moment, only to be swiftly followed by a calamitous clash of thunder. The noise made both men wince, and they took a step further inside, pitching their voices lower so as to not invite the other Northmen to overhear. 

“The Queen thinks your arguments have merit, but she cannot alter her own war on a whim.” 

“It’s not a whim,” Jon snapped, growing frustrated. “I wish I could make you understand, make everyone understand, just how grave the threat is.”

“I chose my words poorly, forgive me,” asked the Queen’s Hand. “But you have to understand: You’ve not sworn fealty, nor have you made a formal alliance with our Queens’ forces.”

“Why does that matter?”

Now it was Tyrion’s turn to grow exasperated with the inexperienced young king. “Because one does not rush off to aid those who will not return that aid,” he said simply. “Alliances go two ways. If you want our help, we want yours.”

Jon glared down at him. “My people will not want to lose yet more men in another Southron war. We don’t care who sits in your precious throne, we want nothing to do with the politics and turmoils of the other kingdoms.”

“And yet, here you are, asking for our aid.”

Again, the sound of rain, wind, and thunder filled the void the silence between the two men. 

Finally, Jon closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and regarded the Imp with his own mask of neutrality. “What do you want of me?”

“I understand the North will not bend the knee, and Her Grace is not asking them to.”

Snorting, Jon replied, “My father liked to say anything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit.” 

That got a rousing laugh out of the dwarf. “Yes, that does sound rather like something Ned Stark would say. Very well, then. *But,*” he continued, “she would like to discuss a formal alliance between House Stark and House Targaryen.”

“An alliance,” muttered Jon. “An alliance can only be forged between equals, and I doubt the woman with three dragons and three large armies sees us as that.” 

“Just talk with her,” Tyrion pressed on. “Get to know her. She’s not what you think.” The Northman looked down at him skeptically, but nodded. 

“I’ll inform her Grace to expect you tonight, then.” Tyion looked out at the deluge pouring down inches away from them. “And now I have to go back into that.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, so will I.” 

The Hand snorted with amusement, “It does, actually.” And with that, he pulled up his hood, and moved back out into the storm. The little man moved as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Jon watched him fade into the distance, as his mind whirled. How does one have dinner with a queen? 

* * *

By the time Tyrion finally made it back within the walls of the keep, he felt like more fish than dwarf. Fortunately, the Unsullied guards were well-trained and made no comments to his water-logged state as he moved, dripping, through the halls, leaving a trail of water in his wake as he made his way to his rooms to change. 

Finally, ensconced in dry clothes once again, the youngest Lannister was still wringing the water out of his beard when he heard a voice from him room call out to him.

“There are easier, and dryer, ways to talk with our young king, you know.”

Turning around, he wasn’t at all surprised to see Lord Varys standing inside his doorway, having somehow entered without making a sound. 

“Perhaps, but I wanted to deliver our queen’s message personally.”

“Because you share a rapport with our Northron guest?” Varys regarded him mirthfully as he made his way deeper into the room to take a nearby chair. His own quarters were far enough inside the walls, that the tempest raging outside was but a distant thing. 

“Because I’ve spent time with him and his family, and for all the bitterness between our houses, I think I stand a better chance of reaching him than anyone else on this gods-cursed island.” 

The Spider shrugged his shoulders in acquiescence. “Perhaps. How did it go?” 

“About as well as I could have hoped,” admitted the other man. Tyrion went and poured himself a glass of wine. He offered one to his guest, but Varys just declined with a shake of his head. “He won’t be bending the knee any time soon, but I have him thinking about an alliance.”

“I’ve had some thoughts in that area myself,” the bald man informed him. 

“Oh?” asked the dwarf, as he took the seat across from his old friend. 

Varys nodded, but said nothing. Tyrion tilted his glass back and let the warming liquid slide down his throat when the Master of Whispers announced, “Marriage.” Suddenly the sweet ambrosia caught in this throat, as he began to cough some of it back up. 

The spymaster waited on Lord Tyrion to compose himself. “You did that on purpose,” he accused. 

Varys answered with sharp indignation, “I can hardly be blamed for your inability to drink like a civilized person.” 

“Do you honestly think either of them would agree to such a thing?” 

Again, Varys nodded. “It is our job to get them to consider it, at the least. They are the scions of two powerful and influential houses. They’re both monarchs, and they both hold something the other needs.”

“He needs our armies,” Tyrion admitted, “but I fail to see what Daenerys needs from him.”

“Legitimacy,” explained his friend. “The Starks are one of the oldest and most respected families in all of Westeros. The tragedies that have befallen them have garnered them a great deal of sympathy with the lords and smallfolk alike. Right now, Cersei’s greatest advantage is to paint our queen as a foreign invader.”

“Given that she’s arrived with largely foreign armies, that claim is not without its merits,” he continued. “The Dornish and Ironborn are not the most beloved of kingdoms. Lady Sand and her children are seen as usurpers and kin-slayers by many.”

“What Cersei did to House Tyrell has engendered them a great deal of sympathy as well,” Tyrion pointed out.

“Perhaps, but Lord Willas is a scholar, not a warrior. Our queen may find him easily controllable, but he won’t inspire the people.”

“So, the Starks...” 

“The Starks have a true born daughter and a male heir, even if he is a bastard.”

“Bastards have been used to revive dying houses before,” pointed out Tyrion. 

“Just so. House Stark is in a much stronger position than any other major house, at the moment, despite their losses over the last several years. The North accounts for a large amount of land, and its people are a hardy breed, if stubborn and insular. A marriage alliance between the two would give both houses a much needed restoration, as well as act as a symbol of unity for all Seven Kingdoms.” 

“Our queen has already married twice; once sold as chattel for her brother’s ambitions, and the second for political expediency,” the Imp reminded him. “She will be rather difficult to persuade to attempt a third.” 

Sighing, Varys shook his head. “This is different. Jon Snow is not a barbarian warlord or a noble of a class of people for whom the queen can barely feign tolerance. From what my little birds have whispered to me, he’s strong and idealistic, and he is by no means unattractive. Put in the proper context, this need not be much of a burden to either of them.” 

Tyrion glanced up at his friend, eying him warily. “And what context would that be?” 

“That this would be the sealing of an alliance, not just for the good of their families, but the realm as a whole.” 

“All this assumes Daenerys would be willing to share power,” he pointed out before downing half his cup in one long draw. “Our queen has many virtues, but I’m not sure that is one of them.” 

* * *

When Jon returned to the rooms provided for them, he found the queen’s herald, Missandei, waiting for him. 

“Her Grace thought you might want something a little more comfortable for dinner,” she informed him, gesturing to an outfit laid out for him on his bed. 

Against all expectations, the clothes were simple in style. Well-made, of a far better quality than anything a commoner would own, but it lacked the ostentatious he’d seen in the Queen’s own wardrobe. Breeches, a black tunic, and a dark grey leather doublet with the sigil of the dire-wolf upon its breast. “Where did you get these,” he couldn’t help but ask? 

“The previous occupants left behind many things. These clothes were among them. I added the sigil at the Queen’s request.” 

His fingers traced over the direwolf’s head. “That wasn’t necessary, but thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it, your Grace. I’ll be waiting outside to escort you to the Queen when you’re ready.” With that, she left him to clean up… for dinner with a queen. Jon felt as if he were back in the mud, staring down the charging Bolton cavalry. Steeling himself, he exited his rooms, and followed the Essosi woman through the halls.

Jon was still fall from familiar with the layout of Dragonstone, but he knew enough to realize they were moving away from the main halls and deeper into the living areas. The sense of dread twisting in his gut grew. He’d been expecting a small dinner with her and the other advisors, in the main hall. His waterlogged mind shook off the fog and added began putting things together: new clothes, informal setting… 

“Are you trying to get me alone, King in the North?” she’d asked him when they’d first met days ago. 

He was going to be alone… with her. And that meant she’d finally have the chance to ask all those questions he’d truly hoped she’d forgotten about. Small chance of that, he thought to himself. As they finally reached her door, Jon steeled himself for what was to come. 

There were a pair of guards outside, and one moved to open the heavy wooden door for the pair. Missandei led the way within. “King Snow, as you requested, your Grace.” Those words still felt alien to his ears.

“Thank you, Missandei,” came the queen’s voice, though he could not make out from where. The room was rather large, clearly a sitting room with sleeping area off through one of a pair of doors that lay on either wall. The room itself was decorated with tapestries of what he could only assume were Essosi in style. The furniture was solid oak, however, and the simple carvings seemed at odds with the rest of the decor. On the center table, food had already been placed, but there was no sign of his host.

The queen emerged from the half-open door on the other side of the table. The thick and heavy dark coat he’d last seen her in had been replaced with a lighter kind of wrap-around of the same material, only this time in dark red. It still covered her from neck to ankles, much as her more formal attire did, but this one flattered her more. The strange silver chain she wore diagonally across her body was gone, replaced with a dragon headed pin a her right shoulder. 

Behind him, the door closed, Missandei no longer at his side. The two were alone now, standing across the room from each other, a food-laden table between them. “Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace,” Jon began, giving her a polite bow.

“Daenerys, please. We’re in private. We can dispense with the etiquette for one evening.” Taking her seat, she gestured for him to do the same. “May I call you Jon?” 

“Of course, yo… Daenerys.” The dark-haired man took his seat, his body tense from the anticipation of what was to come. “It looks good,” he told her. “ The food, I mean.” 

Her lips quivered, fighting against the need to smile at his awkwardness. “I hope you don’t mind Meereenese cooking. Given the weather of late, I thought you might enjoy something spicier, to warm you up.” She stabbed a morsel off her plate and moved it to her mouth.

“I’ve never eaten anything not made in the North,” he confessed, as he picked up a utensil to do the same. The meat looked safest, so he started there. The sensation of fire coating his tongue made him swallow reflexively, only to send that very fire sliding down his throat, leaving ash in its wake. 

Coughing, Jon reached for his glass and downed it quickly. Dornish wine was supposedly among the best in the world, but the former Lord-Commander barely tasted it, in his quest for relief. Casting a glance to his companion through tear-stained eyes, he saw Queen Daenerys regard him with raised eyebrows, her face contorted in a mix of mirth, sympathy, and concern. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, reaching for a nearby wine bottle. 

“I…,” again, a coughing fit wracked him. “I’m fine. It’s… good.” 

Melodious laughter filled his ears. “You’re a terrible liar, Jon Snow.” 

His troubled breathing turned into a strained chuckle of his own. “Not had a lot of practice at it, I’m afraid.” 

“Good.” The queen rose and refilled his glass for him. Grateful, he thanked her before consuming it, this time a bit more slowly. The glass drained, she filled it again, before retaking her seat. 

“I see now why they call you the Unburnt,” he told her, his composure finally regained. “Only a dragon could eat that and survive.” 

Daenerys called out, and a guard opened the door. “Please ask the kitchen to send up a bowl of stew for our guest.” She paused for a moment to regard the man across from her. “And some mead as well, if we have any.” He answered in a tongue Jon didn’t understand, and left. 

“Thank you.” Gratitude washed over him. He wasn’t sure if he’d survive the meal if he’d had to eat much more of that. 

“May I ask you a question?” 

He tensed, dreading the question he didn’t want to answer, but he nodded. 

“Why Jon ‘Snow’?”

That made him blink in surprise. “Because Lord Stark was my father, but Lady Stark wasn’t my mother.”

“I know what a bastard is,” she told him. “Personally, I find the word loathsome. It is unfair to hang shame on a child for circumstances they had no control of. But that wasn’t my question. You’re King in the North, the Lord of Winterfell as proclaimed by your own lords. Why do you not call yourself Jon Stark?” 

That was a question Ser Davos had asked him, shortly after his impromptu crowning that day. As then, he didn’t really know how to explain it. 

“Because, I’ve been a Snow all my life,” came the reply after a long pause. “The world has done nothing but remind me that I’m not a Stark, not really. It doesn’t seem right to take advantage of their tragedy to elevate myself.” 

And there it was. The look he’d seen on the faces of all the other people, the ones who didn’t mock or trivialize him because of his father’s indiscretion: pity and sympathy, mixed with a sad smile, as one has when trying to comfort a child who’s just learned an unpleasant truth. His father wore it the day he’d finally told Jon about why Lady Catelyn treated him so differently. 

“But you haven’t,” she pointed out. “Your people chose you, just as mine did. You are the future of House Stark. If your sister ever chooses to marry again, it will be into another house. Who will carry on the Stark name, if not your children?”

He flinched at that question. Suddenly, he was glad for the unappealing food. He was no longer hungry. Seeing his pain, Daenerys changed her course. “Forgive me, I was simply trying to understand… You don’t have to answer.” 

Silence reigned in their wake, so the queen ate slowly, while Jon sat, trying very hard not to brood. Eventually, the guard admitted a young girl carrying a tray with a bowl of stew for him. He took it from her with thanks, the hearty smell stirring his appetite back into wakefulness. 

It smelled delicious, even if he couldn’t quite place what kind of stew it was. Given the queen’s exotic palate, it seemed the wiser course of action to not inquire. A quick taste reassured him that its taste matched its aroma. “I never expected to have children,” he finally announced. “I wouldn’t even lie with Ros.” The look of puzzlement on her face prompted him to explain, his face flushing, “She was the whore my brothers got for me on my sixteenth nameday. I didn’t want to take even the slightest risk of making a child of mine a bastard… so I stammered like a fool, turned redder than I am now, and left.” 

Daenerys had to make a conscious effort to not giggle just a little at the mental image of a young Jon Snow stammering like a fool in front of a naked woman. “So you’ve never been with a woman, then? Given your vows to the Night’s Watch, I mean.” 

The red in his cheekens deepened, and Dany’s smile widened to match. She’d have to watch herself; making this man squirm could become a hobby she’d grow far too attached to. 

“No, that was the first vow I broke,” he confessed. 

“Is that why you were expelled from the Night’s Watch?” she asked, genuinely curious. Technically, any such violation was a death sentence, but she highly doubted the Watch actually punished its men for the occasional dalliance. 

“No, it’s… complicated,” he confessed, digging back into his bowl of stew, hoping for a disaster of some kind to move this conversation onto a new topic. But the queen had been fascinated by this since they’d exchanged titles, and it was clear she was not going to let this go. 

“The night is young still,” she pointed out, before taking another bite of the dish that had burned his insides. How could see eat that and not at least flinch? 

“Your Hand mentioned you wanted to discuss an alliance,” he offered, but she wasn’t taking the bait.

“I prefer alliances with people I know,” countered the young queen. “So stop avoiding my question; we’re in private, just as you asked. The harder you strive to avoid answering me, the more I desire that answer.” 

Now, it was Jon Snow who smirked from behind his mug of mead. “I think it only fair that I be the one to tease you, for a change, your Grace.” 

Dany’s eyes widened at his sudden boldness. It was an obvious attempt to put her on the defensive, but she found she didn’t mind. As amusing as squirming Jon could be, confident Jon was a new perspective on him, and it made her wonder what other sides lay concealed beneath his serious and grim exterior. 

“I could order you,” she told him, but he’d already had his rebuttal prepared.

“No offense, your Grace, but I am a king. No you can’t.” 

She raised an eyebrow, and steeled her gaze, but her barely suppressed smile undermined the effect she sought to have. “You’re a very infuriating man, Jon Snow.” 

_At least she’s not telling me I don’t know anything_, Jon thought to himself. “So I’ve been told.” With that, the subject was summarily put aside, and eating resumed. Only, now, there was a tension in the air, akin to a rope being pulled too taut.

As the pair finished, Daenerys summoned a pair of young serving girls to clean up. “Have you had a chance to explore the castle yet?”

“I’ve been rather busy,” he reminded her. 

“So, you have,” the queen rose to her feet and gestured for him to follow her. “Allow me, then.” As they left the room, Dany signaled for her guards to stay at their posts. Their guest was unarmed, and she sensed she had little to fear from him. He did not seem the type to plunge a dagger into her heart without at least some form of provocation. As they made their ways through the winding halls, Daenerys pointed out the points of interest. Perhaps, most importantly, she showed him how to find his way to the kitchens. 

Jon listened like an attentive student, following along beside her. She seemed to know quite a bit about this keep, especially having only recently acquired it. “You were born here, weren’t you?” he finally inquired.

“Yes, and on a night much like this.” A rather heavy boom vibrated through the walls, accentuating her point. “My mother died shortly thereafter.” 

Her face was guarded, but Jon could still feel the faint undercurrent of sadness at those words. “I never knew my mother,” he confessed, hoping to distract her. 

“She died, as well?”

“I don’t know. My father would never talk about her, not to anyone. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I don’t even know her name.” 

“He told you nothing? I find that surprising,” she commented as their course took them back around to the living areas.

“The last thing he said to me was ‘the next time I see you, we’ll talk about your mother.’” Now it was Jon’s turn to place a placid mask over the grief that washed over him. “I never saw him again. The Lannisters took his head, held my sisters hostage, and murdered my brother at a wedding feast. Then Ramsey Bolton murdered my youngest in front of me.” His teeth clenched as the image of the arrow piercing Rickon’s chest rose unbidden. 

Daenerys stopped and placed a hand on his shoulder. She’d often lamented the fact that her family had been hunted down and exterminated. How could someone hate them so much as to want to wipe out every man woman and child of an entire family? But she’d been strangely fortunate: she never knew her family, aside from Viserys and the tales he had. She understand their loss, that her life should have taken a very different course, but it was still an abstract thing, a fact with little emotional weight.

How much worse was it have lived through it? To have known and loved all those taken from you, to feel their loss as a void gaping in the very core of your being? Perhaps, that was why Viserys had gone mad. How ironic was it, that she’d find a kindred spirit in the son of the Usurper’s closest friend and ally? 

“It would seem many have done their best to doom both our houses,” she murmured softly, “and yet, here we stand.”

He met her gaze, and placed his hand over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Aye, here we stand.” The two stood there in the darkness of the hall, the pounding of the rain fading away to be replaced by the pounding of two beating hearts. Neither wanted to move, to break contact of hand or eye. It was as if one of the bolts of lightning dancing in the sky without had struck them, setting senses afire.

Finally, it was Jon who tore his gaze away first, dropping his hand. Freed, the Targaryen heir did the same. The two stood in the hall, unsure of what to say. “You still have a sister, yes,” she asked, trying to go back to the topic at hand. Jon could only nod as they continued their journey back towards their rooms. 

“Aye, Sansa. She’s ruling the North in my absence,” he explained, his throat raw and tight. “I have two other siblings, who were lost in the chaos, Bran and Arya, we don’t know their fates.”

The pair neared the corner just before the Queen’s chambers. “I hope they find their way home to you.” Jon started to thank her for her kindness, but right as they were about to turn the corner, an all too familiar scent reached him. Like a snake, his arm shot out to block his companion from turning the corner. When she opened her mouth to complain, he pressed a finger to her lips, and another to his own. The queen was confused, but she nodded. 

With a gentle push, Jon guided her back against the wall, then he dared a quick gaze around the corner. He found his suspicions confirmed, the two guards outside her door, lying in pools of their own blood, the scent of death fresh in the air. Jon instinctively reached for Longclaw, only to be reminded that he’d left his weapons aboard the ship. The door to the queen’s chambers were open, and the shadow of movement within played along the wall outside.

Pulling back, he turned to Daenerys, and whispered softly, “Assassins. We need to move.” Her eyes widened in shock. Assassins? On Dragonstone? That seemed impossible, but she wasn’t about to argue with him. Now, she too, could sense the odor of blood and feces nearby, and did not need to see the bodies herself to know Jon Snow spoke true.

With a firm nod, she gestured back the way they came. They’d passed another guard-post a ways back. Their only chance was to reach the Unsullied and raise the alarm. Jon understood and the pair turned to leave only to see a shadowy figure exiting one of the rooms behind them. It was a man, wiry and slight of build, dressed in leathers, with a sword and dagger belted to his waist. 

Jon rushed him before he could raise an alarm, slamming into the mans’ chest, smashing him against the wall. That knocked the air out of the assassin, so Jon grabbed him by his skull and smashed it back against the wall. His head left a red and grey smear as it slid down to the floor with a loud thump. But before they could move, a gleam of light lashed out from the darkness of the room the intruder appeared from. 

It was only the reflexes honed via years of training that Jon immediately twisted to the side even as his brain acknowledged the warning of danger. It didn’t stop the thin blade of the dagger burying itself in his upper arm, but it was better than the lethal blow its owner intended. 

Even as he winced in pain, his hand flew to the knife and ripped it out. Normally, he’d have left it in, but he needed a weapon, and since his attacker so thoughtfully provided him with one, he’d be a fool not to accept. Another man, dressed much the same as the first emerged, drawing his sword to the ready. 

Why isn’t he calling for help? Jon wondered, but had little time to ponder that mystery. It mattered little. If the brief struggles hadn’t alerted the other invaders around the corner and down the hall, the protracted fight with this one certainly would. 

But another challenger entered the fray, as the door a bit further down flew open. The Unsullied Daenerys had introduced as Grey Worm emerged from it, wearing naught but breeches, but wielding the trademark spear of his army. Behind him, Jon could just barely make out the queen’s herald, Missandei looking out with concern. Jon made a mental note of that to ponder later. Daenerys called out, “Sentys!” in High Valyrian. Killers. 

Her loyal general needed struck without hesitation, the tip of his weapon lashing out like a coiled snake. The intruder hadn’t been expecting a second assault, nor one such reach. He tried to parry the strike, but the awkward angle meant he merely deflected it from a killing blow to his heart, to a piercing wound deep into his flank. A strangely strangled scream escaped from the would-be assassin’s lips, and Jon realized why the man hadn’t called for aid. He couldn’t; he was mute, his tongue cut out. And he’d be willing to wager so was the one he killed earlier. 

First, armies of the dead, then dragons, and now this. Really, mute assassins failed to leave much of an impression on the Northern king, who was becoming accustomed to the odd twists his life seemed to be taking. The sound of running footsteps from the direction of the queen’s quarters drew his attention back to the moment, however. 

The Unsullied ripped his spear free of the other man’s side, with a smooth motion, and turned to face the oncoming guests. They’d have to round the corner to see him, and that would give him the chance to spear the first foolish enough to show his treacherous face. Behind him, Jon stepped up and slit the throat of the man he’d wounded. Good. Mute prisoners could not be interrogated, and thus were useless. The Queen had tried to explain the Westerosi custom of ransoming to him when they’d first arrived. He’d thought it wasteful. Enemies were to be killed, not used as bargaining chips. 

As predicted, another of the intruders rounded the corner at full speed, and found himself impaled on the Unsullied spear. The second figure approached more cautiously. This man wore a more more elaborate, if slightly ostentatious, leather gambon, and what had to be the ugliest beard Jon had ever seen. When he saw his man gurgling on the end of the spear, he took him by the shoulder, and shoved him forward until the metal tip ripped its way out his back.

It was a cold, callous, and yet calculated maneuver. Grey Worm realized his spear would not be so easy to free, and released it, stepping backward. The newcomer just looked on as his man fell forward, the other end of the spear catching on the floor. His companion cried out in agony as he slid down the shaft by his own weight. His suffering seemed to only amuse the man who’d doomed him to a horrible death.

“Well,” he spoke, confirming to all that this was clearly the leader. “That’s got to be a bloody horrible way to go. Better him than me, aye?” His sword and dagger still rested in their sheathes on his belt, and he made no move to draw them. 

“Name yourself,” spat Daenerys. “You who dares intrude upon my home.” 

“Euron Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands.” With a twirl of his hand, he made folded the other arm behind his back and made a flamboyant bow. The four of them tensed at the name, having heard all about him from Lady Yara. Grey Worm moved first, intent on grappling with the man while he foolishly placed himself in such a vulnerable position.

“Wait!” Jon tried to warn him, having seen Theon fight as children. He knew the Ironborn had a variety of dishonorable tactics and tricks they loved to use. It was what made them such effective raiders. As Grey Worm’s hand closed on Euron’s shoulder, he forced him upright and spun him to slam back into the wall. 

But like a shadow, the elder Greyjoy produced a small piercing dagger that was wielded not in the fist, but between the index and middle fingers, from behind his back. The former slave-soldier immediately realized his mistake, and tried to pull away. However, the assassin had timed his strike flawlessly, with the Unsullied still carried by the momentum of his move to grab him. The tiny blade sliced across his throat, and only the soldier’s reflexes saved him from the lethal strike. 

Blood spilled from his throat and down his bared chest. He clamped his hand around the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. Behind him, Missandei cried out and tried to rush to his side. Like a snake, Euron’s hand shot out and took her by the forearm. Before he could pull her away, Jon dove for the floor, snatched up the fallen blade of the second assassin, and rolled into a stab for the Ironborn’s guts.

To save his life, Euron released the queen’s heralded and hopped back a foot. The sound of metal scraping on wood filled the hall of carved stone as he pulled his own sword free at last. “Finally,” the kin-slayer murmured. “Seems I’ve finally found me a real fight.” 

Jon felt his lip curl into a snarl. A hatred he’d not felt since he’d pummeled Ramsey Snow near to death with his own hands welled up in his breast. “You might not be so glad that you did.” Without taking his eyes off his opponent, he dropped the dagger from his left hand, and kicked it back towards them. “Dany, take them and run.” 

The queen opened her mouth to protest, but she knew he was right. She was no warrior, and not for the first time, she found herself wishing she’d insisted her Old Bear or even Daario, had given her some kind of training, to defend herself in these situations, if nothing else. If she lived through this, she swore to rectify this oversight immediately. So she plucked up the dagger, and turned to help her friend. 

Missandei struggled to hold Grey Worm up. Her lover was feeling a bit lightheaded, both from the lack of air and the loss of blood, but the two women he’d sworn to cherish and protect put his arms around their shoulders and dragged him with them as they fled. 

Gratitude warred with shame at the core his being. It was his job to safeguard them, and he’d failed. As an Unsullied he’d trained to never fear death. In fact, for many of them, it was the only release from slavery they’d ever find. But now, he’d found not only a cause worthy dying for, he’d found someone worth living for. He wanted to stay with Missandei, and to see his queen upon the throne of her ancestors. And so he relented, letting them carry him away from the battle.

“Don’t go too far, your Grace,” the lord of the Ironborn called out. “I’ve come a long way to fuck a queen, and I don’t intend to leave unsatisfied!” 

Snarling, Jon lashed out with his blade in a quick slash and thrust. “You’re right about one thing; you won’t be leaving!” 

The other man parried it with ease, then snapped his own blade towards Jon’s face. He deflected it, if only just. Blood ran down his arm. The cutthroat earlier had wounded his sword arm, and he’d not had time to properly stop the bleeding. Even through the haze of red, the young warrior knew he had to end the fight quickly, before the arm completely lost its strength. Gripping the pommel with his other hand, Jon shifted to a two-handed stance. It was not his preferred style of fighting, but it would help offset his injury. 

“I’ve told you my name, your Lordship,” mocked the Ironborn “I believe you owe me the same courtesy.” 

“Jon Snow.” 

“The King in da Norf!!!” roared his opponent, in a mockery of the Northern speech. “The Drowned God smiles on me this night. First, I kill a king, then I take that pretty little queen back to my ship, and entertain myself with her before I bring her to the Lion Queen.” 

Cersei Lannister?! Yara’s worry that her uncle would ally herself with their enemies had been well-founded, but none of them had expected things to move this quickly! And how had he gotten on the island in the first place? “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” hissed Jon. “Better men than you have tried to kill me.” 

The Greyjoy king’s face twisted into a sneer. “Unlike them, I won’t fail.” He sword flashed like lightning, making a quick triple slash at Jon, trying to get under his guard. The young king’s blade met each blow and turned them away before flickering forward, catching the other man across the cheek. 

“They didn’t,” he informed his opponent. 

At first, Euron looked puzzled, even as the clash of their blades echoed off the stone around them. Then he put it together, and it made him laugh. “What is dead, may never die, little wolf. It would seem the Drowned God favors you too.” He fainted another sideways slice, but redirected into an upward cut at the last second. 

Jon caught it, just barely. Their hilts locked together, and Jon glared, staring death into his enemy’s eyes. “Shut up,” he spat. He yanked his blade back, pulling Euron off-balance, then twisted to the side and lashed out with his elbow, catching him firmly in the side of his face. Unfortunately, the kin-slayer did not drop his blade, instead only stumbling back, into a defensive stance. Euron wiped at his nose, a smear of blood covering his glove. 

“I knew this would be fun,” he laughed, and Jon could only wonder at the insanity of the man standing across from him.

Please let them get to safety, he prayed to the Old Gods, and even the Red one, if he truly held his favor as the Red Priestess claimed. Gritting his teeth, Jon lept forward, once again, into the fray.

Each man tested the other with slash and thrust, but neither managed to land a telling blow. Much to his chagrin, Jon realized that his opponent was a fearsome swordsman. His style was unconventional, seemingly sloppy to a casual observer, but the longer they fought, the clearer it became that no matter how careless his opponent acted, it was just that: a mummer’s farce, meant to lull his enemies into a false sense of over-confidence.

Ironically, it was the injury to his arm that had kept the young king from fighting more aggressively, otherwise he might have fallen into the trap. And yet, if he didn’t change tactics soon, he’d fall to the Ironborn leader, regardless. Already, he could feel the aching from his wound moving further up and down his arm. 

The other man sensed his adversary’s growing weakness, and like the opportunistic predator that he was, Euron Greyjoy pressed his attack. Throwing caution to the wind, he pressed forward, raining blow after blow hard against Jon’s sword, no longer attacking the man, but the weapon and, by extension, the arm that wielded it. 

The former Lord-Commander deflected each strike, turning away the brunt of the blow, but every fall of the sword grew the pounding in his arm that much more, until the very tips of his fingers tingled with the needle-like pricks of numbness. Seeing his moment, the Lord of the Iron Islands hit the other man’s sword one more time. Only this time, instead of recoiling back to wind up for yet another attack, he slid his blade down to lock hilts and twisted, tearing the blade from his enemy’s fingers.

Jon stepped back, head raised high, refusing to look away from his killer’s gaze. Euron Greyjoy stared back at him, his leering sneer fading into thoughtfulness, even as he leveled his blade to Jon’s chest. “You’ve seen it, too,” he murmured.

“What?” 

“The abyss” the Ironborn hissed. “The great dark that awaits us all.” 

Jon’s blood froze as the memory of the inky darkness he’d felt himself drowning in as he died rushed back. “Aye,” he whispered. 

The other man nodded in agreement to some unspoken question, and the veneer of disdain and arrogance slipped for a moment as the Ironbon raised his blade to salute his opponent. Jon blinked in surprise at the almost knightly gesture. It was the last thing he expected of any Greyjoy, much less the man he’d spent the last few minutes trying to kill. 

“What is dead, may never die,” he said, repeating his earlier sentiment, with none of the insolence of the first time. He then raised his blade to strike, and Jon braced himself for the final blow.

Instead, there came the loud twang of a heavy string, followed swiftly by the thunk of a crossbow bolt driving itself into Euron Greyjoy’s upper left shoulder. The force of the blow spun the man to the side. The Northron king wasted no time, striking out at the other man’s sword hand, knocking his weapon to the floor. It was only when he’d been disarmed that Jon spared a glance towards his savior.

Tyrion Lannister stood at the far end of the hall, still in his bedclothes, but wielding a very sturdy looking crossbow. He was already in the process of reloading it, apparently having the presence of mind to bring the necessary tool with him. Jon was surprised at the practiced smoothness the diminutive man was executing his task, all the while, never taking his eyes off the invader.

Just then, bells began to sound through the halls. “That would be Varys,” Tyrion called out, “having finally alerted the guards.” The Queen’s hand leveled a baleful gaze at his wounded target, who was already recovering from the shock of his injury. “Be a smart man, and surrender now and I promise you a swift death. Or play the fool and make us chase you, and you’ll be lucky if the queen doesn’t give you to the Dothraki to play with. They do take assassination attempts against their Khaleesi *very* seriously.” 

The Ironborn’s lip curled into a sneer beneath his ostentatious beard. “You’re assuming your precious dragon bitch still lives. Or do you think this is all I brought with me?” Before his words could settle in, Euron launched from his heels and charged Tyrion. The youngest scion of Casterley Rock recoiled back, sadly dropping his crossbow before his task was complete.

To his good fortune, their uninvited guest was more interested in fleeing than slaying the other man, so he brushed Tyrion aside and vanished around the corner. Jon’s first inclination was to give chase, despite his own injuries, but the man’s words struck a chord in him. Daenerys… where had she gone? Shaking off the weariness that threatened to overtake with a fresh rush of fear, he grabbed up his fallen weapon, this time in his good hand, and took off down the hall in the other direction, after the Queen. 

* * *

It had been slow going for the three. Grey Worm was lithe, but the blood-loss was making him dizzy and difficult to carry. Missandei had ripped a section of her sleeping gown off and given it to her paramour, who had managed to fasten it as a tie around his neck. It was making it difficult to breathe, but better that than the alternative. 

They finally reached the guard post Jon and Daenerys has passed earlier on their walk, but the gods, it seemed, conspired against them, as neither Unsullied warrior was there. The young Targaryen was far from a master of war, but she knew that there was little that would have make both seasoned and disciplined soldiers abandon their station. 

Her fears were confirmed, as a pair of men emerged from the doorway to the servants area that the guards had been placed to watch. If the garb they wore hadn’t told her they were of the same stripe as the other intruders, the bloodied weapons in their hand surely did. The two men, both dirty, and sunken eyed, looked at them, then snarled, drawing their weapons. 

Again, Daenerys cursed that she’d neglected. Pulling herself out from underneath Grey Worm’s arm, she stepped away from her companions. “It’s me you want,” she told them two men. “Let them pass and I will offer you no resistance.”

“Your Grace, you cannot!” Missandei exclaimed. Even Grey Worm looked at her, shock winning through his glazed eyes.

She looked to her handmaiden, herald, and most trusted confidant, and murmured softly in High Valyrian “Believe in me, sister.” 

While this transpired, the two Ironborn looked at each other, and made a few quick hand gestures. It was then the bells could be heard, and they realized that their attack had been discovered. They were out of time. 

Finally, one sheathed his blade, and took Daenerys roughly by the arm, and pulled her away. The other, blade still in hand, gestured to the two Essosi to move aside. Missandei did so, the weight of Grey Worm still on her arms. He’d grown limp, seemingly on the verge of passing out, and it was all she could do to keep him upright. 

The one holding onto her dragged the queen behind him, intending to go back the way they came, rejoining their leader. Daenerys did as she was bid, offering little resistance as promised. While the two men’s eyes were locked on her companions, to ensure they did not attempt something foolishly heroic, they failed to notice the dagger slipping out of the sleeve of her dress and into her hand.

When she realized the guards were missing, the young Dragon had slipped the small blade up her sleeve. She knew she’d never win in a straightforward battle, and certainly not against experienced raiders and cutthroats. Her only chance lay in deception, the perceived frailty of her sex and station. Her instincts proved correct, and though she’d had to hide the winces of pain as its sharpened edge cut against her skin, it had given her this chance. 

Once she felt her fingers tighten firmly about the handle, Daenerys struck. While her schooling in the martial forms were sorely lacking, her husband had loved to talk about his battles and frequently described how he slew his opponents as they lay in the aftermath of celebration of his latest victory. One details in particular she had been able to recall: that the easiest way to strike a man’s heart was to go up and under his ribs. 

Her own small stature worked in her favor, against the much taller, burlier Ironborn. She wasn’t sure where the heart lay in a man’s chest precisely, but she aimed for the middle of his ribs, and thrust low and upward. For once, it seemed the gods had blessed her, and her blade struck true. Blood bubbled up from the brigand’s mouth and spilled down his chin. The crimson fluid also gushed from the wound, soaking her hands. On reflex, she tried to pull the weapon free, but it was lodged too firmly, and the attempt caused a spurt of dark red ichor to splash across her face. The shock of this caused her to release the blade and wipe at her eyes, costing her the advantage.

The dead man’s companion spun when he heard his partner’s strangled cry of agony. Realizing what had transpired, the Ironborn growled something one could only assume was a curse, and moved to strike the Dragon Queen down, Euron and Cersei’s desires be damned! It was then that Grey Worm revealed his own deception, grappling the Ironborn from behind. Their attacker made a choking, almost squeak-like sound in surprise, and tried to struggle back. However, the Unsullied had a deathlike grip on his shoulders, focused on trying to get the man to drop his sword. He did so, but even as he did, he shoved back hard, driving the Unsullied into the wall behind them. The loud crack of bone against stone was heard, and as Grey Worm fell, blood marked the spot where his skull impacted the wall. 

It was at that moment, that Jon Snow came running down the hall, sword gripped in hand. “Daenerys!” shouted the king, and both she and the Ironborn snapped around to see the newcomer about to join the fray. 

The assassin had but the blink of an eye to process this newest combatant. Out of his sight, Missandei took his sword up off the floor, and rammed it into his back with all her might. The blade sank through the hardened leather of his armor, and while it did not quite make it out the other side, it bit deep. A moment later, Jon Snow’s own stolen weapon brought the matter to a close, as he brought the blade down on the man’s skull, splitting it in twain. 

Moments later, Unsullied rushed from the corridor that had brought Jon to them, even as others burst through the doorway from the servant’s area. Lords Varys and Tyrion followed behind them, looking distraught at the chaos and blood strewn before them.

“Your Graces, are you well,” asked the Spider?

“I’ve been better,” Jon admitted, slumping against the wall. Two of the Unsullied were already gathering up their fallen leader, even as another ran to get a Dothraki healer. 

“Is he alive?” Tyrion asked. 

One of the guards said something the others couldn’t understand, so it fell to Missandei to explain. “He lives, though barely. If he is not tended to soon, he will die.” 

Jon looked to the fallen warrior, then asked. “Do you have maesters?” 

Tyrion only shook his head. “They have very few on Essos, and the Lady Olenna despises having them follow her around. The Citadel isn’t obliged to send us one, either.” 

“I have one on my ship,” he offered. “ I’ll send for him.” 

“Thank you,” said the queen. She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed it gratefully “Whatever help you can offer, we accept.” Jon nodded, but noticed the blood dripping from her fingers.

“You’re wounded,” he announced, getting the attention of her lords, but she waved them off. 

“A small cut from where I had to hide the dagger you gave me. I’ll be fine.” 

“Nonetheless, small cuts can have felled knights and kings alike if left untended,” her Hand pointed out. 

Daenerys didn’t feel like arguing. Already the rush of energy from the evening’s activities was leaving her. So she simply nodded, and let them escort her to the healers, as Jon went to summon his ship’s maester. 

The crisis had passed for the moment, as had the storm raging outside. Once wounds had been tended and rest taken, the task of finding out just how these cutthroats had gotten into their most secure fortress would begin in earnest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I'm not going to use Euron Greyjoy as a punchline to a bad joke. I decided I'd see if I could redeem him, as well, but making him an actual threat and worthy "Dragon" (pun intended) for Cersei. In case you're curious, I see him as most of his eccentricities and swagger as "obfuscating stupidity" that he used to anger his enemies and get them to underestimate him. 
> 
> The first draft of this chapter had more overtly romantic overtones between our royal couple, but I toned it down. My worst quality as a storyteller is the need to rush and get ahead of myself. We GoT fans got enough of that garbage with Season 8, thank you very much.


	5. The Road More Traveled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei schemes and plans and does more than just drink wine while looking out a balcony. 
> 
> Ser Davos reaches King's Landing and finds an old friend.
> 
> And we finally catch up on Jaime and his "mysterious" traveling companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this is not only another long one, but it took nearly as long to write. Combined with the holidays coming up, and I'm afraid these two week delays might become the norm until after New Years. It'll really depend on how much writing I can get done while visiting the family. 
> 
> Thank you all again for your comments and kudos! I honestly didn't expect this story to gain any traction given how long it took me to jump on the Fix-It bandwagon, but its done better than I hoped!

**King’s Landing**

“Your Grace, I regret to inform you that the dissent amongst the smallfolk is rising.” Qyburn, ex-Maester, now the Hand of the Queen, approached his monarch, head bowed, as she sat upon the Iron Throne.

“And what makes you think I care about what upsets the rabble,” retorted Cersei Lannister.

The older man lifted his head, and regarded her without fear or reluctance. It was one of the many things she liked about the man. He was always calm, always quiet. He told her the truth, even when she didn’t necessarily want to hear it. From any other source, she’d have expected some ulterior motive, but quiet, clever Qyburn held no such ambition. All he cared for was expanding knowledge, and protecting the rule of the one monarch who would allow him to proceed about his work, unhindered by such petty things as morality.

One of his greatest achievements stood now at her side. Ser Gregor Clegane, referred to as “The Mountain” by many, was at her left hand, clad in the armor of the Kingsguard. Not that he’d taken any of their vows. Whatever Qyburn had done to him, it seemed to have rendered him mute. Not that it mattered. He followed orders without question. If only more of her soldiers were like him. 

“I beg your pardon, your Grace, but you should care. The destruction of the Sept of Baelor may have dispatched with your immediate political enemies, but I’m afraid it will prove disastrous in the long-term.” He climbed the steps to the throne, to stand at her right. “The common-folk are ignorant, believing deities watch over and judge them. By destroying such a holy site, they’re convinced you’ve brought the wrath of the gods down upon the city.’ 

When Cersei sneered, Qyburn pressed forward. He had to make her understand. “Also, many of the Lords count themselves as devout followers of the Seven. While I have no doubt, many of them care rather little for the sept, they do care that you massacred the Tyrell family, who are much beloved.”

“That little bitch and her brother played along with the High Sparrow’s little farce,” she reminded him. “Even my own uncle was all too willing to sell me to them, so they could stand over me and pass judgment.” 

“I understand the necessity of it, your Grace,” he assured her. “But now that news of the Targaryen girl’s arrival on Dragonstone has reached the ears of the common-folk, they’re all the more convinced that this city is to become a battleground.”

She saw was this was going. “So like rats, they abandon a ship they think is sinking.” 

“Just so, your Grace.”

“What of the lords’ response?” 

Qyburn hesitated only for a moment. That did not bode well. “While many lords have confirmed their oaths to the throne, most have claimed that their forces are needed to secure their own lands from encroaching invaders.”

“They’re waiting to see who wins, you mean,” snapped Cersei. With that, she rose from the throne, gesturing for the two men to follow her. Soon, they were back in her offices, standing above the map of Westeros she’d had painted on the floor. She’d decided she’d wanted a counterpart to the Painted Table, so she’d had this commissioned and installed just as her brother abandoned her. “Tell me the disposition of the forces we do have.”

“Despite the wavering of some, Lord Tarly has managed persuade the houses of the Crownlands and even several of the Reach, that we must unite against a foreign invader. We’ve spread word that Daenerys Targaryen rides with a horde of Dothraki screamers and a slave army she stole from Slaver’s Bay. This had fostered the idea amongst the people that any who defy her will be enslaved, which has caused them to rally to your side.”

Something almost akin to a smile graced Cersei’s features. “My father taught me to turn my enemies strengths into weaknesses. And my drunkard husband once spoke to me at length about what would happen if the Dothraki invasion. The argument he had with Ned Stark over assassinating this girl for this very reason, nearly destroyed their friendship, only for Robert to be proved right, in the end.” 

The memory of the self-righteous Eddard Stark made her smile. She’d warned him what happened to those who lost the game of thrones. Just like Robert, the poor honorable fool hadn’t heeded her advice. And just like her husband, he’d died for his ignorance.

“If I may, your Grace, what wisdom did he have to impart, regarding this predicted invasion.” 

That actually got a laugh from Tywin Lannister’s only daughter. “Robert was never wise, in any sense of the word. But he did understand how to kill, and he loved to talk about his victories at length, usually while too drunk to stand. But, he told me that we could hide behind our walls, but the Dothraki would burn and rape and pillage everyone around us. We could go out and meet them, but we’d have to do it as a single unified army.”

“A thing we are sadly lacking,” Qyburn pointed out.

“A unified Westerosi army, yes.” Her smile only grew. “Has their been any word from Lord Greyjoy?” 

“Yes, your Grace, a raven just arrived. He failed to assassinate the queen, but his fleet has secured the Golden Company and they’ve begun the journey back across the Narrow Sea.”

The queen snorted. “He failed. I knew he was too arrogant.” 

“He did pass word of an interesting development. Apparently, the King in the North was on Dragonstone, as well. It was his intervention that saved the Targaryen girl’s life.” 

That made Cersei’s blood run cold. An alliance between these two self-proclaimed monarchs was something to be thwarted at all costs. “Damn the Northron and their bastard king,” she spat. “We’d counted on them staying out of this, allowing us to deal with the dragon bitch first.” 

“My ears on Dragonstone hear whispers that no formal alliance has been made. In fact, the Stark bastard had come to beg her help with problems of his own.” 

“A lack of food, perhaps?” With the arrival of winter, food would soon become a grave concern to all, even down South. 

“My spy is unsure, but rumors say that Jon Snow is spinning tales about white walkers and undead armies marching beyond the Wall.” 

“You must be joking.” 

“No, your Grace, the whispers that have reached me say that the North is marshaling its strength, but it looks northward, not south.” 

“The army of the dead are stories meant to scare children and fools.”

“Perhaps, your Grace,” conceded her Hand, “but dragons, too, had fallen into myth, and they’ve returned.” 

Cersei regarded the man with skepticism. “Don’t tell me you believe these tales.” 

“I do not dismiss them out of hand. Clearly, the North fears something coming from beyond the Wall.”

“Wildlings,” she offered up, but the older man shook his head.

“My ears in the North are few, but they have confirmed the rumors that the Night’s Watch have let wildlings move south of the Wall and settle land on the Gift.”

“Ridiculous, the Lord-Commander would never allow such a thing!”

“Jon Snow was Lord-Commander at the time,” he replied, “before he resigned and took up the Northern crown.” 

“And the Watch didn’t revolt against him?” 

“That is where things grow uncertain, my Queen. You see, I hear tales that there was an attempted coup, and those that led it were hung by Jon Snow days later. But these same sources all tell me the mutineers successfully slew him several days prior.” 

Qyburn’s placid exterior hid an insatiable curiosity, especially when it came to understanding death and the ways to thwart it, Cersei knew. Her allowance to perform his research unhindered by Citadel ethics had purchased his loyalty better than any coin or oath. That’s what she like about this strange little man: he was practical, and his ambitions were entirely academic. 

“Tell your sources to drink less, they may see things more clearly,” snapped the Queen. 

“Yes, your Grace.”

The last true Lannister paces around the edges of her map, her restless energy washing off her Hand as though he had not a care in the world. “Are the scorpions ready?” When Qyburn nodded in the affirmative. “Good. Build more.” 

“More, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I want to line the walls with them, and Greyjoy’s fleet outfitted with them as well. The bitch only has three dragons. Once they’re gone, she’s just another invading army to be put to the sword.” 

The former maester paused, considering his words carefully. “Forgive my impertinence, but I strongly advise against that course of action.” 

“What possible reason could you have against that?” She shifted her gaze to him, eyes narrowing. 

“Scorpions are powerful, but difficult to aim at the best of times. Against a target in mid-air, the task becomes significantly more difficult. Add in the complications of the distances at which such attacks will be made, and I’m afraid using them like any other siege weapon would prove ineffective.”

“All the more reason to have more of them,” she snapped. “The more we have firing, the greater the chances of hitting their targets.” 

“Perhaps, but consider as well, that such obvious fortifications will be seen from a great distance away, and a dragonrider has the advantage there as well. And finally, there’s the fact that bolts will lose power over distance. Beyond a point, they’ll be little better than spears.” 

Cersei’s ire grew as he prattled on. This was not what he’d promised her! “So you’re telling me that your precious weapon is useless!”

“Not at all, Your Grace. Surely you know the stories of Aegon the Conqueror’s invasion of Dorne?” 

“Every child knows that story.”

“Then you recall that the Dornish slew Queen Rhaenys and her dragon, Meraxes with a scorpion. It is from the notes of the Dornish maesters of that era that I modeled my design.” 

Her temper receded, as she recalled the tales. “I assume you have a point?” 

“Only that the Dornish struck the blow, not by using the scorpion like any other ballista, but by concealing it and striking when the Queen least expected, and from close range, as well.”

“You want to hide them?” When her Hand nodded, she looked down thoughtfully to the map at her feet. “I assume you have suitable placements already in mind?” 

“Of course, your Grace. And I think you’ll find they will go quite well with our other plans.” 

Cersei’s face lit up with in a smile that would have chilled the blood of most. But most were not allowed in her presence anymore. Only Qyburn and Ser Gregor, and nothing she did affected them in the slightest.

“Go on.” 

* * *

Ser Davos Seaworth moved down the Street of Steel, letting the sights and sounds carry him back to his the days of his youth, growing up on the streets of Fleabottom. As poor and hungry as he’d been as a youth, there was still a part of him that yearned for those simpler times. The thought brought forth a chuckle from behind his beard. He doubted there weren’t many that didn’t wish the same at some point in their life.

Still, the nostalgia didn’t hide the changes either. The streets were only half as full as he remembered. And those that did move about did so, quietly and with eyes lowered. They were scared, he thought, scared and angry. Even as he steered his small boat into the bay, the absence of the Sept of Baelor from the city skyline had struck him instantly. 

Despite all the stories, part of him couldn’t truly accept that it was gone. Not that he was a particularly devout man, but his wife was, and he had no doubt that the news of the mad queen’s actions had upset her greatly. One day, he’d make it back to her, and together, they could mourn their eldest child properly. 

But as ever, duty kept him away. This time, it had called him back to the place of his birth, in the hopes of finding an old acquaintance. A few coins in the right hands had found him yet another promising shop, which he now approached. The ring of hammer on anvil could be heard, even over the noise of the people in the streets. 

Stepping into the doorway, he was happy to find that this lead had finally been the one to pay off. Gendry had grown since they’d last met each other. He’d been a fit if somewhat awkward youth, a smith’s apprentice before the whims of the gods and the machinations of a red priestess had cast him into the dungeons of Dragonstone. Since Davos had helped him escape, he’d apparently thrown himself back into his trade, filling out into handsome, if rough, young man. His hair was dark as night, the only legacy left to him by his father, Robert Baratheon, the former King of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Wasn’t sure I’d find you,” the older man called out, catching the attention of the young blacksmith. Gendry looked up from the axe he was sharpening. “Thought you might still be rowing.” 

That got a chuckle from him. “Dragonstone isn’t that far from here, old man.” 

“You know, I’d checked shops, taverns, brothels; should have known to go straight to the Street of Steel.” 

The young man gestured to his forge. “This is what I’m good at. My old master was glad to have me back.”

“What happened to him?” 

Gendry’s fist tightened upon the weapon he’d been working on. “He’d been outside the Sept of Baelor, the day the queen,” he spat the word like a mouthful of serpent’s venom, “destroyed it.” 

“Good gods,” the Onion Knight murmured. “I’m sorry, lad.”

But the other man shook off the apology. “He was one of the lucky ones. It was over with quick, they said. Not like the others.” 

Davos didn’t need to ask. He’d seen the effects of wildfire firsthand. The ones closest to the blast got to die quickly. Then there were those close enough to feel the flames kiss their skin. Those got to either die in agony, or live with scarred bodies for the rest of their days. Best to change the topic. “He leave you the shop?”

“No one was more surprised than me, believe me. He had no family left, so he passed it all to me.” He gestured around the small but well-outfitted shop. “Best thing that ever happened to me, really. I just wish he hadn’t had to die to make it happen.”

“Aye, I know what you mean.” This time, it was the memory of Shireen, his precious princess, who burst forth from his mind. In many ways, the pain of her loss was worse than that of Matthos. He’d been a man grown. He’d made his choice to follow his king and go to war. In war, men died. That was the hard truth of it. He knew many would blame the enemy for his death, but what was the point of that? Were the other side supposed to just roll over and die without a fight? 

But Shireen? She’d been a child, an innocent. “She was good, she was kind, and you killed her!” Even now, he could hear him screaming those words as though it were happening right now. Davos never raised his voice. He was a calm, patient man. But in that moment, if he’d had all the fingers on his hands, he’d have throttled her to death with them, king’s judgment be damned.

But this was not the time for such things. When would it be time, a voice that sounded too much like his wife’s asked. If Gendry noticed his mind far afield, he was kind enough not to mention it. Instead, he simply asked, “You’ve come to get me, haven’t you?”

The older man nodded solemnly. “There are bad things coming,” he started to explain, but was cut off.

“I’m ready,” said the smith, his eyes bright with the determination and sureness of youth.

“You need to understand what you’re getting yourself into,” he started but was again cut off.

“You think I’m happy, making weapons for the family that wiped out mine,” growled the royal bastard, and Davos could see the Baratheon blood in him boiling beneath the surface. “For the queen that murdered hundreds of people I knew and saw ever day?” 

For once, Ser Davos found himself brought up short. He’d come expecting to have to pry a youth away from his life and trade, not a man whose blood called him to war. Should have known better, given his father. “And you’ll join someone else’s war, just like that?”

“This isn’t someone else’s war. It’s our war, our city; that golden-haired witch is my enemy, too. You go around this city, ask in the right places, and you’ll find a lot more feel that way than just me.” 

That got the old smuggler’s attention. “How many are we talking?” 

The dark-haired blacksmith smirked. “How many people are there in Fleabottom?” 

Now, Davos was looking around, making sure no one in a gold cloak was anywhere near their little shop. “And do these people just talk?”

“Talking’s all most can do, but only because they don’t have much else they can do.” 

Ser Davos of House Seaworth walked over to the Gendry and placed his hands on his shoulders. “Can you introduce me to them?”

The younger man nodded. “I need to know something first. Who do you fight for now? We all heard about Stannis, dying up North.” 

A melancholy swept over the aging knight as he thought of his king, dying alone in the snow, at the hands of some Bolton soldier. “Aye, he’s gone. I’m Hand of the King now, to Jon Snow, of House Stark.” 

“The King in the North? I met his father, y’know, in this very shop, before all the troubles started. Our fathers were friends, or so the stories say.”

“Eddard Stark didn’t betray your father,” Ser Davos reassured him, but Gendry waved him off. 

“Like I’d believe Lannister lies.” Gendry moved over to one of the weapon racks and pulled off a giant warhammer, and Davos found the family resemblance growing the more he looked at him. “I’m not too good with a sword,” he confessed, “but I know how to use one of these.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” the Onion Knight smiled, “but it’s your skills as a smith we need, as much as your sword-arm.” 

The dark-haired man looked puzzled. “The North not have any smiths, then?” 

“The Boltons weren’t kind to their people, it’s true, but you’re needed to help craft some special weapons,” Davos hesitated before adding, “on Dragonstone.” 

Confusion turned to surprise. “Dragonstone? But that’s where the…,” and then comprehension dawned. “Is the North pledging itself to the foreign queen?” 

“The North would sooner bed the white walkers before it swore itself to another,” the Hand informed him, “but there are talks of an alliance. There’s a war coming, a much greater war than you know, and it waits up North.”

“Then why are we going to Dragonstone?” 

“Because that’s where the dragonglass is.” 

“Dragonglass,” Gendry asked. “You want me to work with dragonglass? Why? Steel’s better.”

“Not for what awaits us,” replied his friend. “Come on, close up, and share a meal with me. I’ll tell you what I can, and tonight, we can meet those friends of yours.” 

**The Kingsroad**

Jaime Lannister and his strange companion rode in silence. They were almost to the North proper, only a few days south of Moat Cailin. So far, their journey had been a quiet one, but Jaime’s sense of unease about his traveling companion had ebbed the further they went. She’d had countless opportunities to slit his throat in the days since they’d met, but she’d not taken it. Finally, he’d had to conclude that she didn’t mean to simply kill him. 

Still, he could feel her eyes on him all the time, and it wasn’t in the way he was accustomed to from women. There was no desire there, and yet, she watched him much like a cat stalks its prey. She wanted something from him, but he couldn’t determine what it was. 

“Jeyne”, or whatever her name really was, wasn’t overly talkative, which suited him. The silence had given him time to mull over his life and the choices he’d made, and he’d come to some very depressing conclusions. Chief among them was that Cersei never truly loved him, not like he did her. She saw him as just an extension of herself, of her desire for power. Whatever affection she had held for him had died when he came back to King’s Landing, a broken, filthy wreck of a man. 

All the things he’d done in her name, all of it, had been for nothing. Even pushing the Stark boy out the tower window all those years ago. Just the memory of it made him wince. He hadn’t wanted to do it, truly, but the boy had seen too much. A child was a terrible secret-keeper, and his would have seen his sister and their children fall to the headman’s axe. There had been no choice, he’d told himself at the time. He wasn’t so sure in his conviction anymore.

Jaime has sacrificed everything for his family: for his father, he sacrificed his honor by slaying King Aerys; for his sister, he’d sacrificed his life to stay by her side, to protect her from her pig of a husband; for Tyrion, he’d paid a different price, that of his father’s life. 

That still burned, that Tyrion had taken his gift of freedom and used it to become a kinslayer. He knew how much his little brother had suffered beneath their lord father’s hatred, but he never thought he’d go that far. And there was the whore… Jaime couldn’t remember her name. It was Tywin’s death that had begun the downfall of House Lannister. 

Thinking of Tyrion’s last lover reminded him of Tysha, his first wife. That was a name he’d not soon forget. He’d nearly told Tyrion the truth about what happened all those years ago, begged forgiveness for not coming forward sooner. But his brother started reminiscing about their addled cousin and his beetles, so the moment slipped away. It was probably for the best; only the gods knew what Tyrion might have done had he known the truth. 

The last news he’d had before leaving had said the Imp had been seen in the company of Daenerys Targaryen, in the city of Meereen, wearing a Hand’s pin upon his breast once again. It seemed a cruel jape, for his brother to serve the daughter of the king he’d slain. And yet, despite the fury he felt as his brother’s actions, he’d been tempted to go to the dragon queen himself.

Oh, he doubted he’d survive their initial meeting, but he’d nearly gone anyway, to look her in the eye, to explain and apologize. Until Brienne, he’d never told another the truth about that wretched day. Not even Ser Barristan knew what really happened. It hadn’t mattered. Lord Starks’ tale of events had spread like wildfire. But the daughter of the mad king needed to know the truth of why he’d broken his oaths and shoved a sword in her father’s back. 

More importantly, he’d owed her an apology for failing his duty, not to her father, but to her mother. Rhaella Targaryen had been a sad but kind woman. The nights he’d had to stand outside the door of the king’s bedchamber while he’d forced himself on her had been a nightmare, one he’d been only too glad to end. If only he’d found his courage sooner, he thought, she might still be alive, the rebellion might never have happened. 

Aegon could have been king at his moment, instead of his power-drunk twin. Daenerys herself could have grown up the princess she deserved to be, instead of being sold like a broodmare. The whole of the Seven Kingdoms could have been at peace, if only Jaime Lannister had found the will to break his oath just a little earlier. And it was for that failure, that he wanted to beg forgiveness of the Dragon Queen.

But it would never happen. The moment he was spotted near Dragonstone, he’d be captured, and thrown in a dungeon, and that was if he were truly lucky. More likely, he’d be fed to her dragons as a light snack before ever laying eyes on her. He also worried, that with Tyrion by her side, his own outrage at his brother’s betrayal might distract him from his intentions.

No, North was the path he would take. The Starks were as harsh and unyielding as the land they ruled, but they were fair, too. They’d given him a hearing before taking his head. To the bastard boy who now sat his family’s throne, he’d confess his sins, even about what he’d done to his youngest brother, and accept his judgment. But he wanted to see Brienne one more time, before the end. He wanted to do this one thing, not just for himself, but so she, who’d helped him find his honor, could see him reclaim what he’d lost so long ago.

“You’re doing it again,” came a voice from beside him, yanking him from his revelry. 

“What?” he snapped, annoyed at the interruption.

“Brooding,” she pointed out. “My brother used to do it all the time. I know what it looks like.” 

“Did you annoy him about it as well?” the knight growled, turning his attention back to the road.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. 

“Where is this brother now?” he inquired, curiosity replacing his desire for introspection. This was the most she’d said to him since that first night around the campfire. 

“Up north, with our family,” replied the strange young woman. 

Turning to look at her, “Where is this mysterious family of yours, exactly?” 

“I told you, up north,” she repeated. 

“Yes, but the North is rather large,” the former Kingsguard pointed out. “I was hoping for something a little more specific.” 

She looked aside to him. “Why?” 

“Because you know exactly who I am, but all I know about you is that you’re from the north, you have a brother, and you carry an odd little sword.” 

“It’s name is Needle,” her words were quick and defensive, and for the first time, he actually saw a hint of emotion in her.

“You named your sword.” There wasn’t a trace of mockery in his tone. “It must have special meaning for you.” 

A heavy pause lingered before she finally replied. “It does. My brother gave it to me.” 

Interesting, most brothers wouldn’t gift their sisters a sword, no matter how small or light it seemed. Still, he knew all too well how sensitive a subject siblings could be. Best not to press matters just yet. 

“Mine has a name as well: Widow’s Wail.”

Her face scrunched up in distaste. “That’s an awful name.”

He chuckled in agreement. “It wouldn’t have been my choice, admittedly.” 

“Who gave it that name?” she asked.

“My son, Joffrey.” There was no point in denying it anymore. He’d all but admitted the truth to her the night they’d met. Not that it was much of a secret anymore. The rumors about his family had been circulating for years now.

His companion spat at the mention of his name. “Cunt,” murmured the girl. Jaime could only hold his tongue. Part of him wanted to defend his fallen child, but there was no denying the truth: Joffrey had been a monster. He mourned him, not only his loss, but the person he might have been if only he’d been allowed to raise the boy as his own, and not as the spoiled spawn of that fat bastard, Robert. 

“You should name it something else,” suggested “Jeyne.”

“That’s not how names work,” he pointed out, but she that just made her ask a question.

“Did he blood it?” 

That made the eldest scion of House Lannister pause and consider. Joffrey had been a bloodthirsty monarch, but others did his killing for him, for the most part. He’d heard tale of him murdering a whore with his crossbow, but no story ever had him using his sword for anything other than a deadly piece of jewelry.

“I don’t believe so,” he admitted.

“A sword has to be bloodied before the name belongs to it,” she offered, but Jaime just regarded her skeptically.

“I’ve never heard of a such a thing,” he protested. When she didn’t reply, he glanced to her thin little blade. “Is that bloodied, then?”

She met his gaze with the cool and detached indifference of a snake. “It is.” He didn’t doubt her for a moment. 

Still, she pressed on. “You should give it another name.”

“I’ll think about it.” In truth, he had no desire to give the blade a new name. It wasn’t his to give. 

Beside him, his traveling companion drew back the reins on her horse, and pointed ahead of them. Shifting his attention back to the road, he saw what had caught her eye. Three bodies hung from a heavy branch that stretched across the highway. Their hands went to their weapons as they approached the corpses, eyes taking in everything around them.

“Bandits,” Jaime determined. Not that it was a difficult thing to reason out. Whoever ended their lives thoughtfully hung a sign around their necks, decrying their crimes. “No lord’s men did this. This was the Brotherhood.” The so-called Brotherhood Without Banners had been a marauding band that had harassed the Lannister forces for much of the war. “Didn’t think they went this far north.” 

“Jeyne” steered her mount closer, so she could inspect one of the bodies. “They’ve not been dead long. No more than a day or two.” Jaime agreed. 

“Fortunately, we’re neither bandits nor rapists, so we have little to fear from them,” said the knight, but his companion had other ideas.

“If we hurry, we can catch up to them,” she announced, nudging her steed ahead again. 

Startled by her sudden eagerness, Jaime did the same a moment later, striving to catch up and then match speed. “You want to find them,” he asked, incredulously? When she gave a firm nod, there was only one thing left to ask. “Why?”

“I want to cross a couple of names off my list.” Before he could ask what in the gods’ names she was talking about, she sped up down the road. 

Briefly, Jaime considered just letting her go on her way, chasing after whatever vendetta she was clearly on. But they were still headed North, and he admittedly found himself intrigued. This stoic young woman had come off as rather cold during their trip. He was curious to find out what the Brotherhood had done to draw her ire. 

So he sped along after her, very much interested to see how this played out.

* * *

The first two days of the hunt had led the pair to a few more displays of executed outlaws, hung in plain sight as a warning to others who might be tempted to prey upon travelers. The bodies were fresher, though, meaning they were catching up. 

At “Jeyne’s” insistence, they began taking their rest at dawn, and riding through the night, looking for signs of their camp. They’d come across the remains of one a few hours ago. The discovery had driven the girl into moving faster still. Whatever demons drove her, they had a firmer hand on the reins of her horse than she did.

Now, they crawled through the forest several miles east of the ruined keep at Moat Cailin. The campfire off in the distance glowed softly in the dark. The two crept slowly up to it, eyes and ears alert for a sentry. If it was the brotherhood, they’d be fools not to post a watch. Jaime was unsure of their numbers, but there was probably at least one posted, two or three if they were smart. 

The girl’s instincts were good, as she seemed to reach the same conclusion. Rather than rush headlong at her prey, she had grown cautious and patient. Seeing her move through the thick brush with nary a sound, Jaime realized his earlier comparison to feline predators had been an apt one. 

Their caution proved warranted: a pair of guards walked a perimeter around the camp. Smart, two men, covering all angles, and close enough to keep an eye on each as well. They’d have to take them both out at the same time. The thought did little to warm Jaime; he had no grievance with these men, and he’d lost his taste for needless bloodshed. But he knew the girl was keen on whatever vengeance she sought, and would not be dissuaded. 

The knight gestured for her to come closer, so she moved close enough for them to whisper to each other. “We’ll have to take them at the same time,” she told him. 

“I know, but I won’t kill them,” announced the former Kingsguard. He expected her to object, but she only nodded. 

“I just want two of the them,” she informed him. “The rest can live, if they don’t fight us.” 

“And if they do?”

The girl gave a simple shrug of her shoulders. “If its them or me, I choose me.” That made Jaime grin, despite himself. Against his better judgment, he was growing to like this girl.

Stealth was not Jaime’s forte, and they both knew it. So “Jeyne” moved around to the far side, hoping to flank the second guard, while Jaime lay in wait for the other’s patrol to take him ‘round past his hiding spot. He waited for his partner to move first, and move she did. Without so much as a snapping twig, she came up from the brush behind the roving watchman, kicking at his knee to drive him down. Before he could cry out, she clamped a hand over his mouth and struck the back of his skull with the hilt of her blade, knocking him senseless.

The other man saw the movement immediately, and whirled to see what was happening, but that had been Jaime’s cue to act. With his attention firmly drawn elsewhere, the one-handed knight popped from his cover, and brought his golden hand down firmly on his head as well. Their heads properly rattled, the pair were swiftly bound, gagged, and left hidden in the underbrush with little resistance. 

Now that they had a closer look at the camp, Jaime could see the group had fallen on hard times. Half a dozen sleeping figures rested around the fire, and with the two they’d captured, that meant the exalted Brotherhood without Banners numbered a mere eight men. 

The Lannister’s attention was drawn back to “Jeyne,” as she went from bedroll to bedroll, undoubtedly searching for the two men that had wronged her so. During their hunt for them, he’d finally managed to get to reveal the names on this mysterious list she’d mentioned: Ser Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr. When he asked why she wanted them so badly, all she would say is that they betrayed her and sent a friend to his death. Truly, that was all he needed to hear, to secure his cooperation in this strange endeavor.

At last she found her quarry, as he watched her kneel down and pull a knife from her boot. Before she could strike, however, a hand clamped around Jaime’s ankle and pulled him off balance, sending him crashing to the ground. He struggled to push himself up, but whoever grabbed him rolled atop him, and pressed a blade to his throat. 

The sounds of struggle jarred the rest of the camp awake. Thoros of Myr opened his eyes to see the dark-haired young girl sitting astride him, blade raised to strike. All he could do was lay there, frozen. His blade was within reach, but he knew if he so much as looked at it, this assassin would end his life. The others went for their own weapons, and Jaime knew they were fucked. If they surrendered, the Brotherhood would undoubtedly hang them, too. If they fought, “Jeyne” might get her cherished revenge, but neither of them would escape to enjoy it. 

Yet another poor decision in a life full of them, the Kingslayer thought to himself.

“Drop your knife,” came a very familiar sounding growl. “You take one of mine, I take one of yours, then I’ll come over there and shove that tiny blade up your arse.” Jaime’s vision cleared, and he found himself staring up at a scarred and weathered face he’d not seen since the journey King Robert and Ned Stark had made together to King’s Landing, all those years ago.

“Clegane?” 

Sandor “the Hound” Clegane realized he had Jaime Lannister at his mercy, and blurted out. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

At the sound of that name, “Jeyne’s” focus snapped to tall, massive figure pinning Jaime to the ground. “Sandor?” she cried out in disbelief. Seeing his chance, Thoros twisted his hips and threw his attacker off of him, going for his blade.

“Enough!” a raspy voice cried out as a bright light washed over the group. The entire camp froze as Ser Beric Dondarrion rose to his feet, his sword held aloft blazing with the fires of the Red God. His single eye was focused on “Jeyne.” “Clegane, let him up.” 

“They came her to kill us,” spat the Hound. “You want to let them go?” 

Ser Beric just shook his head. “There’s no need for bloodshed this night. Is there, girl?” 

The nimble young woman rolled to her feet, her knife in one hand, and her thin little blade now drawn in the other. It was not a stance Jaime was familiar with, but with how she held it, he knew the girl was poised to strike in an instant. “Jeyne, listen to him. This isn’t a fight we can win.” 

The knife at his throat vanished as Clegane roared with laughter. “Jeyne? Is that who you told him you were? You’re still shit with names, girl.” 

Slowly, the girl’s stance relaxed, and she lowered her blades, but did not sheathe them. “You didn’t die.” 

“Nah, seems the gods aren’t done with me yet. Or one, at any rate, if you believe these crazy bastards.” 

“I take it you two know each other,” asked Jaime, as he extended a hand. The Hound took it and helped him to his feet.

“You could say that. Spent months on the road with her, hoping to ransom her back to her family. Didn’t work out.” When he saw the puzzlement on Jaime’s face, he barked out another harsh laugh. 

Jaime was rapidly growing irritated at not being in on the joke. “Who is she, then?” he asked of his fellow former Kingsguard. 

“She’s Arya fucking Stark, you dumb cunt.” Jaime’s expression must have been something to behold because with that, the entire camp went up with laughter.

Jaime looked to his companion, who met his gaze, smirking. Of course. How had he not seen it? It had been hidden behind dirt and a ratty haircut, but now he could see Lyanna Stark in her, staring back at him. 

Cersei had been right, after all: he was the stupidest Lannister.

* * *

A short while later, the men of the Brotherhood began to break camp, as Jaime and Arya broke their fast with the men they’d come to kill. Ser Beric seemed to be taking the incident without rancor. His men had made no move to take them prisoner, nor had he demanded their weapons. It made Jaime wonder if the man had gone mad. 

“So why are you this far North,” Jaime asked. “I thought you and your fellows stuck to the Riverlands.” 

“For a while, yes. When the war was active, we had little choice, as we were caught between armies. But now that the shape of things have changed, we’ve turned northward to fight the true enemy.”

“What enemy?” asked Arya. She’d been polite enough to not actively glare at the two men sitting next to her, but there was no mistaking her distaste for their leader and the red priest. 

“The army of the dead,” Thoros answered. “The white walkers march beyond the Wall. Soon they will find their way past it, and the endless winter will begin.”

Ser Beric nodded as though the man had said the most natural thing in the world. “We’re going to pledge our swords to the King in the North.” 

The expression on the young woman’s face changed, her carefully sculpted mask of indifference slipped out of place for but a moment. “Jon,” she whispered with something that sounded almost like longing, but it lasted for but the blink of an eye. “How do you know about this army?”

“The Lord of Light has shown us,” proclaimed the priest, but Jaime could only snort in disbelief.

“I’m sure he did. And how much did you have to drink before your god showed you these visions, hmm?” Arya did her best to suppress the chuckle that got from her, but it was the Hound who rose to their defense.

“It’s true,” muttered the scarred man. “I’ve seen it, too, in the flames.” He didn’t have to look up to see the pair staring at him, skeptically. “You know me. I don’t believe in the gods or any of this fate shit. But, I know what I saw.”

“Say I believe you,” offered Jaime, in a tone that left little doubt that he didn’t. “Why go North? Shouldn’t we be headed across the Narrow Sea? I doubt the dead can swim.” 

“If you want to run and hide, and let others die in your stead, certainly,” Ser Beric offered. “But that’s not who we are.” He started at the other man, his one remaining blue eye gleamed in the light of their small fire. “It’s not who you are either.” 

“Not this again,” muttered Clegane. 

The eldest son of House Lannister laughed now. “Are you trying to recruit me, Dondarrion?” 

“The living need all the allies it can get,” the older knight answered softly, and despite his disbelief, Jaime could feel the truth in those words. His laughter faded just as the night was giving way to the dawn. 

“It just so happens I’m going to Winterfell as well,” he admitted. “Though I doubt the King in the North will let me join your merry little band. I expect he’ll have my head on the walls of the keep before the moon’s next turn.” 

“Then why go,” asked the Hound? 

“I have a debt to pay,” he realized, his gaze shifting back to Arya. “And a promise to keep.” How many years ago had it been since he’d swore to Lady Catelyn to see her daughters returned to her safely. Sansa had made her own way home, but now, he realized, he had a chance to keep his oath. True, Arya Stark seemed to need very little in the way of protection or rescuing, but it didn’t matter. 

She was regarding him curiously now, wondering why he was looking at her so intently now. Jaime didn’t fail to notice her hand shifting closer to her Needle. “I swore to your mother many years ago that I would see you returned home safely. It seems fate has offered me that chance.”

“I don’t need your help,” she snapped, to which Clegane chortled.

“Still a stubborn little shit, aren’t you?” 

Ignoring him, Jaime pressed on. “I can see that, but I made a promise,” he told her. “And I swear, by the old gods and the new, that I intend to keep it.” He’d see her through the gates of Winterfell, no matter the price her family demanded. 

“Then we will aid you in that task,” Ser Beric announced, and Arya grew even more irritated. 

“I’ve seen what your help is worth,” spat the youngest surviving Stark, “I’d never trust you after what you did to Gendry.” 

To his credit, Dondarrion looked away ashamed. Thoros must have still had some drink in him, because he spoke up in defense of whatever it was they’d done to this person. “The Lord of Light needed…” but she cut him off.

“The Lord of Light can go fuck himself!” Again, Clegane chuckled to himself. “You may think your Red God protects you, but it’s the Many-Faced god who owns your lives.” 

Whatever this god was, the Red Priest recognized it, though it seemed no one else did. Even Beric and Clegane regarded her with confusion. Thoros of Myr, however, went pale. “Your god has no claim on me,” he told her, in a voice that somewhat lacked in conviction. 

The young girl’s face twisted into a smile as chilling as the darkest winter night, but didn’t respond. To his credit, Thoros pulled out his bottle and took a long drink from it. 

Ser Beric just sat in silence, watching Arya. “Do you intend to claim your vengeance now?” 

The question hung in the air, as the camp fell silent. Hands drifted to hilts, and Jaime realized that they were scared; all of them, scared of this girl and her tiny sword. The Brotherhood could sense the fear coming from Thoros, and while they may not understand it, they heeded it, nonetheless. 

But, the lost child of the Starks moved her hand away from her blade and sat back, relaxing visibly. She just gazed at the two men, and said, “Not today.” 

“We have wronged you,” the one-eyed knight admitted. Rising to his feet, he knelt before Arya, surprising Jaime, as well as her. “If it pleases you, Lady Stark, we will offer ourselves up to your brother’s judgment upon reaching Winterfell. You have my word on this, by both the old gods and the new.” 

“I’m no lady,” snapped the girl, as if by reflex. Any fool could she was conflicted now. Ser Beric played his hand flawlessly. It was clear she wanted their blood, preferably by her own blade. But no matter what else she’d become, she was a Stark, and it was to her honor as a Stark that he’d appealed. 

Finally, she nodded, and the entire camp could breathe again. “We’ll let my brother decide what to do with you. You’d best hope he doesn’t leave it up to me.” 

“As you say, my lady.” That comment clearly rankled Arya, so the girl got up and stalked off into the forest, to practice no doubt. Jaime got up to follow her, but Clegane blocked him with his big meaty arm.

“Sit down, you idiot. Can’t you see she wants to be alone?” 

“And what if she doesn’t come back?” Jaime asked. 

The Hound pushed him back down, and handed him a piece of bread. “Think you could stop her from leaving?” 

“I see your point,” he conceded, taking the offered food. It seemed his journey had become much more interesting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a rough one to write. I got really hung up on getting into Cersei's mindset. She's not as brilliant a schemer as she believers, but she *is* ruthless and willing to go further than others would even consider. She proved this to the High Sparrow rather... emphatically. But that decision is costing her, as you can see. 
> 
> I am also deconstructing the Super-Scorpions of Season 8. They will neither be instant OHK anti-dragon sniper rifles, nor will they be suddenly worthless the moment the plot demands it. Reading "Fire and Blood" was insightful in that regard, as you may have noticed from Qyburn's insights into tactics. 
> 
> And now both Gendry and the Hound rejoins the game, much earlier than originally. It seems everything's coming up Arya, though she doesn't realize it yet. 
> 
> Next chapter, we return to Dragonstone to find out more about the repercussions of Euron's home invasion. Dany will find herself faced with a terrible choice, and Jon ponders formalizing an alliance with his fellow monarch. After that, we'll check in on Winterfell as more people arrive on scene, and plotlines begin to consolidate.


	6. Unexpected Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the attack on Dragonstone reveals some unpleasant truths. Daenerys is faced with a difficult choice. Jon finally tells her about his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonerys fans rejoice! This chapter is astep forward for our favorite ship. I'm still going the slow burn route, but I think the shippers will be pleased. 
> 
> I meant to have more POV this chapter, but the central two dominated the narrative, and any attempt to add others seemed to wreck the flow.

**Dragonstone**

In the days since the Ironborn slipped their way into Dragonstone, the keep had been in an uproar. Varys was devoting all his resources into finding out how they’d penetrated her defenses, while her Hand tightened security. Her allies were taking close stock of all who’d come with them, to ensure one of them hadn’t inadvertently let the snake into their mists. Missandei, however, had only a single concern, and it was with her that Daenerys’ attention now lay.

“Will he recover?” asked the silver-haired young woman. The former slave’s hand stood to her left, looking as cool and composed as ever. Her demeanor didn’t fool the other woman, however. She knew her friend was beside herself with worry. And yet, she never neglected her duties for a moment, throwing herself into work while she waited for word from the healers.

The maester, who had come over from the northern ship, did not hesitate to assure him. “Provided the wound does not get infected, I see no reason why not. Your man is very lucky indeed. If it had been any deeper, he would have lost too much blood to save.”

The relief on her herald’s face did much to lighten the burden of the last few days. “You have my thanks, Maester Symon, for all your efforts these past few days.” The two shared a smile, and she nodded to Missandei, dismissing her to go look in her beloved.

“No thanks are required, Your Grace. It is an honor to serve.” The heavyset middle-aged man bowed to her, as best he was able. “I must admit, the skills of your healer are a bit… unorthodox, but they seem effective. I would very much like to spend some time talking with her, but I do not speak Dothraki.”

For the first time in days, something akin to a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Missandei speaks Dothraki, High Valyrian and several other languages, in addition to the common tongue. As I doubt she will be leaving Grey Worm’s side for the foreseeable future, she should have little trouble assisting you in that regard.”

The maester looked surprised, as he’d not expected to find such a gifted young woman amongst the ranks of these strangers from the east. It would seem he’d have to spend time with the queen’s herald as well! Pleased with this, the maester turned to leave the audience chamber.

Standing to her right, Jon Snow gave her a reassuring smile of his own. He knew she’d been worried for her friend. He’d barely left her side in the days since the attack, seemingly taking it upon himself to act as her bodyguard. Before, she might have chided him for this seeming over-protectiveness, but the fact that these murderers had slipped inside her own home with such ease frightened her.

If assassins could breach Dragonstone without warning, then what else might be lurking? Varys had insisted she choose a food-taster for months. She’d been loathe to do so in the past, but the necessity of it could no longer be denied. When she’d asked for volunteers from the Unsullied, nearly every man had stepped forward. So, at Tyrion’s suggestion, they’d set up a rotaton. Every meal, every day, a different man bring her her food and sample it in front of her, that way no one person was constantly at risk, and should something more slow-acting be used, they’d be able to tell precisely what meal had been poisoned.

The King in the North started to say something to her, but was interrupted by Varys and Tyrion approaching the throne.

“Have you uncovered how the assassins got onto Dragonstone,” asked the young Targaryen. Both men looked hesitant to speak, not something either was used to seeing in the normally verbose Lannister.

Most tellingly, it was Varys who answered her. “Yes, Your Grace. You are aware of the small fishing village outside the castle, near the main gate? She nodded in affirmation. It had existed on the island since the days of Aegon the Conqueror. There had been some concerns about their loyalty, but the people had lived there since the first days of the Targaryen dynasty, and had little interest in the wars of the highborn.

“It would seem Greyjoy and his men slipped into the village during the storm. No one among the smallfolk questioned their arrival as it was difficult to distinguish them in the downpour.”

“Only a madman would have gone out in that,” cut in Jon. “My own ship suffered great damage during the storm. It’ll be days before she’s ready to go out again.”

“It would seem the stories of Euron Greyjoy’s recklessness and skill as a raider is not just boasting,” Varys admitted. “Some have even said he has power over the weather, as he frequently attacks ships under the cover of rain and fog, as if he can predict exactly when the elements will favor him.”

“None of this explains how he was able to get inside the castle itself,” the queen pointed out. “It is one thing to land on the island, storm or no, it is quite another to slip inside the walls of this keep and make their way to my quarters unseen.”

Varys looked to her Hand, and with great reluctance, he stepped forward. “Your Grace, it would seem that the attackers gained entrance during a change in the guards. With the storm as cover, they were able to get within the walls. As far as the keep itself…” He hesitated, unable to meet her gaze.

Neither Daenerys nor Jon had ever seen Tyrion Lannister at a loss for words, and it puzzled them. “Continue,” she urged.

“They were let in a servant’s entrance, Your Grace.”

“Let in?” Her voice frosted over, eyes narrowing. “Someone opened the way for them.”

Again, he hesitated. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Have you learned the identity of this traitor,” she asked, the dragon uncoiling in her breast? She expected treachery from her enemies, but from her own?

Again, Hand and Spider looked to each other. Varys stepped forward again. “We have, my Queen...,” he started, but she cut him off, with but a raise of her hand.

The fury that burned behind her eyes made both men wilt, and made even Jon flinch. He’d only seen her open, diplomatic, and queenly nature. “Then bring them here. I would look them in the eye and ask them why they’ve betrayed me, before I give them to my children” No one had any doubt as to what she meant.

“Your Grace, I do not think that is necessary, allow us…,” but the withering glare she gave him made him falter and fall silent.

“Who is this person that you both would go to such lengths to protect their identity?” When neither man offered an immediate answer, Daenerys ordered them in a tone that brooked no more debate. “Bring. Them. In.”

Her Hand bowed his head in defeat, even as Lord Varys bowed to her wishes. The master of whispers gestured to a guard by the door, who left to carry out the queen’s command.

As they waited, Jon’s hand came to rest on the handle of Longclaw. After the attack, Daenerys had granted him leave to arm himself accordingly. He’d left the mining operations to his men, and had spent the last few days working with Varys and Tyrion to tighten up the queen’s personal security.

His concern for her welfare had drawn a few amused look from the dwarf, but he’d been wise enough to keep any clever comments to himself. Varys had remained as inscrutable as ever, but even he’d offered up a dry remark about how touching his concern was for a rival monarch. “I will not allow someone to die on my watch,” he informed them. “Since it seems your own methods have failed to keep her safe, it would fall to me to fix your mistakes.”

His rebuke had silenced even the Spider, and no more was said on the subject. Jon quickly found himself treated as a member of her Small Council, in all but name. The Unsullied and Dothraki would take no command except from her, or Lord Tyrion, but the men of the Reach and Dorne seemed to acknowledge him, despite his having no actual authority over any of them. He hadn’t even noticed it at first.

It had been Lady Olenna who had called his attention to the matter. “It would seem you are well-suited to your crown, Your Grace,” the elderly woman informed him as she lowered herself into her seat at the Painted Table. When he looked puzzled by her remark, she sighed. “You lead naturally, and others follow. It is a trait you share with our young dragon, as well as your father.”

“I didn’t ask…,” he started, but the Queen of Thorns was having none of it.

“Yes, yes, you didn’t ask to be a king. I swear, you Starks and your never-ending humility. I’ve often wondered if you really are that noble, or just too dim to see the obvious. You never had to ask,” she told him, “they follow you because you demand it.” He’d barely opened his mouth to protest that he did no such thing, but she pressed on. “Not with words, boy, with your actions. When you turn, those around you turn as you do. Even our young queen sees it.”

Jon closed his mouth, and pondered her words. “I just do what I think is right.”

Raspy, weezing laughter came from the head of House Tyrell. “Gods, you are just like him, aren’t you? If you’ll allow an old woman to offer you a few bits of advice?” Despite her phrasing, Olenna didn’t wait for his permission to continue.

“First, is that honor and duty are all well and good, but you must remember to put yourself first. You can’t do anyone any good if you go and get yourself killed trying to do the right thing. You only have to look at your father to see that.” The young man bristled at her tone, but she ignored it. “Second, if you’re going to be following her around like a love-sick puppy, at least take advantage of it. Marry her and unite your houses. It’s the smart decision, politically and strategically, for both of you.”

“I’m not following her around,” the King in the North insisted. “I’m protecting her, until I’m sure no more assassins can get to her here.”

The Lady of Highgarden snorted, and shook her head. “Dim, it is, then.”

Pulling himself from his thoughts, he turned his attention again to Daenerys. She’d gone stoic and distant, projecting an air of cool control, but no one could miss the fire burning in her eyes. Betrayal was considered one of the greatest crimes a person could commit for good reason, and it was clear this young woman would brook no treason.

Jon found himself wanting to offer some word of comfort to her, but none would come to mind. What could he say? Apologize for someone else’s betrayal, or perhaps try and advise her to temper her fury? Would he do the same in her place? Stupid question, he mused, and one to which he already knew the answer. He still pictured Ollie’s face, blue and twisted in the hangman’s noose. Of all the knives that had pierced his chest, none had hurt more than that of the young man’s. And he’d answered that betrayal with the punishment justice demanded.

Finally, the doors parted, the guard returned, with Varys and two more Unsullied. Between them, was the person who’d let the assassins in who’d killed their fellow soldiers, injured their commander, and nearly murdered their queen. Jon’s eyes widened in surprise, even as Danaery’s face drained of all color, her fury suddenly frozen to ice in her breast.

The treasonous servant was a girl, who had barely seen her tenth nameday, if she’d had to guess. Danaerys had seen her before, working in the kitchens. She’d even brought her her food from time to time. Her hair was a dark, dirty shade of blonde. She was trembling, her eyes large and round and wet from crying. Tears stained her cheeks, and terror radiated from her in waves.

The room was as quiet as the crypts beneath Winterfell. Of the queen’s advisors, only Missandei was not present. And yet, between them, and the six Unsullied in the chamber, not a breath could be heard. It was the queen, who broke the silence. “Is it true?” Her voice waivered for just an instant. “Did you let the men who attacked me in?”

The child sniffled and nodded her head quickly before lowered it to star intently at the floor.

Pain was writ all over the Queen’s face as she asked the only question that mattered. “Why?”

At first, she said nothing. She just stood, shivering against the stares of the queen and her court. It was Tyrion who moved to her side, and placed a hand upon her shoulder. The girl jumped at the touch, and Daenerys was nearly taken by a wild impulse to sweep off her throne and scoop this terrified little girl into her arms.

“It’s alright, child. Tell the queen what you told us.” The diminutive man wanted to promise the girl that everything would be alright, but even he could not bring himself to voice such a lie, not even in reassurance.

Finally, the girl looked up towards the queen. She still refused to look directly at her, though, as if her inability to see the queen meant that perhaps the queen might overlook her. “I’m sorry, me lady,” her voice was a tiny, hollow thing, cracked and raw. “My brother, he’s still in King’s Landing. They said if I didn’t do what they wanted, they’d take his hands.”

“Who is they?” Jon asked. “Who has your brother?”

“The robed man,” the girl offered. “He took care of us after the bald man left.” She looked to Varys who held his head low in shame.

“This is my fault, Your Grace. I’ve made a grievous mistake, one born of arrogance and pride.”

“Explain yourself,” spoke the queen, a dangerous edge to her voice. “Quickly.”

“This is Anya. She and her brother were two of my little birds back in King’s Landing. When I left rather suddenly, they found themselves without my patronage. In my absence, it would seem Queen Cersei’s Hand, this Qyburn fellow, deduced the nature of my network of informants and has taken them for his own.”

“You use children as your spies?” The distaste dripping from her voice left little doubt to her opinion on the matter. However, Lord Varys did not attempt to placate her growing displeasure.

“I use the trod upon, the servants, the beggars, and all those who go unseen by those in power. They tell me what they see and hear, and I reward them in turn.”

Jon was as appalled at the thought as his fellow monarch, but he had a more pressing question. “If she’s from King’s Landing, what’s she doing here?”

Vary’s gaze flicked to the right of the dais where the ladies Olenna and Ellaria stood watching the proceedings. “I had a few of my birds placed in household of the Tyrells while they were in city. Anya went with them when they left, and then she made her way here.”

“You placed spies amongst our allies.” The queen’s voice once again grew cold, as she found herself oddly grateful to have an adult with which to now focus her fury, but again, the Spider rose to defend his actions.

“My little birds are everywhere, Your Grace.” Before he could ask, Varys turned to the King in the North, and informed him, “yes, even in Winterfell. I would be a poor master of whispers if I simply acted on blind faith.”

“We will discuss this in detail later, in private,” she informed her spymaster, and the stout man bowed his head in supplication.

Lady Olenna stepped forward, her mind ever focused on the more practical matters. “If this Qyburn fellow has turned one of your birds, who’s to say he hasn’t turned all of them?”

“No one, my lady.” Once again, he faced his queen. “I am afraid, Your Grace, that much of my information from King’s Landing must now be considered suspect, at best. It will take time for me determine how far Qyburn’s reach has grown in my absence.”

Her icy gaze once again came to rest on him. “I suggest you start immediately then.” Taking his dismissal in stride, her master of whispers bowed and slipped quietly from the room.

“What are we to do with the girl, Your Grace,” asked her Hand, his voice apprehensive?

The young Targaryen looked down upon the frightened child, torn between her instinct to protect and her duty as queen to dispense justice. “Take her to one of the empty rooms, and confine her there. Make sure she receives food and water regularly, and no one is to lay a hand on her until I have rendered my judgment.”

“I’ll go with them, to ensure she’s treated properly,” Tyrion offered, moving to the girl’s side. Taking Anya’s tiny hand in his, the Queen’s Hand led the girl out of the chamber, flanked by Unsullied.

“I must think on this,” Daenerys announced, rising from her throne as soon as the doors closed behind them. Without giving anyone time to even respond, she slipped from the room. Her original intention had been to go to her chambers to wrestle with the dilemna now placed before her, but as she came the intersection, she chose another path. There was only one place she could feel both safe and find the clarity she desperately needed.

* * *

With court brought suddenly to a close, and his presence no longer needed, Jon Snow went out to the dragonglass caves to check on his men’s progress. It had been slow, painstaking work, as extracting the dragonglass was a more delicate process than simply removing ore from rock. Still, the holds of the ship were filling up steadily. Ser Davos would most likely return soon, and then they’d be free to return to Winterfell before the next turning of the moon.

That thought did not fill him with relief the way he’d expected on the journey south. His time on Dragonstone had allowed him time to come to terms with all that had happened in the last year, from his death to his crowning. But more than that, he found the Dragon Queen to be nothing at all like he’d expected.

When he arrived, he expected a cold, imperious queen, firm in her belief that it was her right to rule all seven kingdoms, not too unlike Cersei herself. Instead, she’d been graceful, diplomatic, and only slightly aloof when they’d exchanged formalities in the great hall. But in private, she was something else, entirely: warm, charming, even a little flirtatious. While no one would ever mistake her for a warrior, her mind was sharp, she listened to those around her, and had wisdom enough to know when to heed their advice.

He hoped for the sake of the girl, Anya, that his impression of her held true. He did not envy Daenerys the position she was in. His own actions when placed in a similar situation weighed on him still. He knew it had been the proper thing to do, but had that made it right? Fool, he cursed himself. These were things she needed to hear. Maybe it would help, maybe not, but no one should have to make such a decision alone.

With that in mind, he made his way back to the beach, only to find Maester Symon coming to him, making his way down the endless series of steps that led from the keep, down the cliffside, to the beach. The man was in service to House Manderley, and his lord had been insistent that he have a maester on this voyage. Undoubtedly, it was the man’s way of trying to regain favor after he failed to answer the call against Ramsey Bolton. He’d even given Jon his personal ship. Not that the lord of White Harbor did much sailing anymore. Any boat he boarded would be as like to sink, so great was his girth now.

“Your Grace!” the jocular fellow called out. “A raven just arrived from Winterfell!” He waved his hand in the clutching the scroll. Whatever it contained, it clearly excited him to make him behave so carelessly.

Picking up his pace, Jon ran to meet the man, plucking it from his hands before the winds did. “You read it?” he asked, surprised the maester would break protocol.

“The Queen’s people did, Your Grace. Given all that’s happened, Lord Varys has insisted all messages be checked, coming and going, unless they bear the Queen’s personal seal.”

He’d have called the man paranoid, but given what they’d learned today, perhaps a bit of paranoia was healthy. Quickly, Jon unfurled the tiny scroll, taking in its contents as fast as his eyes could move.

When he finished, he threw his head back and shouted triumphantly into the wind. “Bran’s made it home!” It was the first truly bit of good news he’d had in months, and in his joy, he pulled the maester into a hug, causing the man to yelp.

The older man was clearly embarrased and pulled himself free as gracefully as he could. “Truly joyous news, my king, for the Starks and the North.” The maestor wore a queer expression, and it made Jon’s elation abate a bit, but before he could inquire, a shadow fell over them.

Both men looked up to see a trio of dragons dive towards them, blocking out the sun as they came. Poor Symon screamed and ducked down, trying to hide behind stony walls that flanked both sides of the enormous staircase. Jon stood his ground, staring up at the sky in wonder, not just of the dragon, but of the small figure with shining silver hair that rode upon the back of the largest one.

He’d been on the island for nigh a fortnight, and had watched the three fly around the island, but to actually see Daenerys Targaryen astride one, flying through the air like Aegon the Conqueror himself! Jon knew now why all these disparate peoples and unlikely allies had flocked to her banner. When in the presence of the Dragon Queen, even the most world-weary of souls could once again believe in legends.

The three creatures wheeled around for a moment, before the black one the Queen rode made to land on a nearby cliffside at the about the same level they were, his siblings doing likewise. With no thought but a child’s yearning to see a dragon up close for the first time, Jon lept over the railing and strode quickly to the trio.

As he approached, he watched the large one extend his wing out and onto the ground, so the last Targaryen could walk regally down it to the ground. Had he been trained to do that, wondered the young king, or did she command him to? Tales told of the bond between rider and dragon; maybe he simply just knew.

He was nearly to her, when the black growled and turned its gaze on him. Jon stopped immediately, suddenly aware that he’d just run up to three of the largest and deadliest creatures in all the world. The queen petted the largest gently on the side of his nose. “It’s alright,” she called to Jon. “Come closer.”

His earlier enthusiasm now tempered by the awareness of his own mortality, Jon did as she bid, though kept his movement slow, approaching the creature as he would any strange animal. Seeing this, Danaerys face lit up with laughter. “He won’t hurt you,” she promised, “not unless I tell him to.”

Jon let out a small laugh himself, his eyes riveted on the dragon before him. “And you’re not going to tell him to, I trust?”

“That would be a very poor way to repay the man who fought to protect my life,” she informed him, with the just slightest tone of hurt at his implication. It took him a moment to realize she was teasing him, yet again.

The bronze one, the middle brother, Jon assumed from its size being neither the largest nor the smallest of the trio, grew impatient with their new visitor, and moved around the larger one to bring its snout low to the ground and within arm’s reach of Jon. To his credit, the king in the North didn’t jump back at its approach, but instead froze in place. The dragon inhaled, and Jon was reminded immediately of Ghost, taking in the scent of a new person for the first time.

Emboldened by that realization, Jon pulled the glove from his hand and extended it so it could better smell him. It pulled back for just a second, but then moved forward again, just a little closer. Near them, Daenerys watched in mute surprise. Her children had never reacted so calmly to a new person this close to them. Tyrion had risked his life by approaching them in Meereen last year, something she warned him not to do again without her.

But now, Rhaegal neared him like a nervous kitten, curiosity about the new warring with the wariness of the unknown. Even Drogon and Viserion seemed more at ease with his presence than any other, so far. Instead of hissing and watching him, tensed up ready to strike with the slightest provocation, her other two children sat down upon the grassy cliffside and just… watched, waiting as she did to see what would happen.

Man and dragon inched towards each other, until finally Jon’s hand pressed itself against its scaly hide. It was warmer than he expected, akin to holding a fresh bowl of stew on a cold winter’s night, and it was just as soothing. The great beast looked to him with its huge eyes, slitted like a cat, studying him and it felt like the whole world held its breath. Then the bronze dragon chuffed, closed its eyes and pressed back against his touch with surprisingly gentleness.

The breath that Jon had been holding tore free from his throat with a gasp. It was unbelievable! He didn’t know what else to do, so he just ran his fingers over its scales, marveling at the texture. So absorbed was he in his new friend that he hadn’t felt Daenerys slipping up beside him.

“His name is Rhaegal,” she told him, her voice barely above a whisper, taut with surprise and wonder herself. She looked up to the dark-haired Northerner who’d appeared in her life mere days ago, in amazement. “He likes you.”

“I take it he doesn’t like too many, then” chuckled Jon.

The last Targaryen shook her her. “They don’t like strangers.”

“I’ve always had a way with animals,” he told her. “I wish you could meet Ghost.” When she asked who that was, he clarified. “My wolf. Dire wolf, actually. We found the pups trying to nurse at their dead mother. We took them in, and my father gave one to each of us to raise.”

Daenerys joined him in caressing Rhaegal, who seemed quite pleased with the attention, if the low rumbling from his throat was any indications. She noted with some amusement that his brothers were moving closer. Drogon especially got jealous when he felt he was being neglected for his siblings. “That was kind of him, most fathers would consider such a creature too dangerous.”

“Actually, it was my idea. There were five, one for each of his trueborn childen. I said they were meant to have them. It wasn’t until we were about to leave that we found a pale one, the runt. He’d been pushed aside by the others, to die. Theon said that one must be meant for me.”

“Ghost,” she concluded.

“Aye, he’d like you, I think,” Jon mused, turning to flash her one of the few true smile she’d seen from him since his arrival. She wouldn’t have gone so far as to call Jon Snow grim, but he took his duties very seriously, and it weighed heavily upon him.

She met his gaze and held it. “If he’s takes after his master, I’m sure I will.” Jon’s mouth found itself suddenly dry with that comment, and he was unsure of what to say to that. Rhaegal, it seemed, had enough attenttion, however, and chose that moment to pull away from them. He let a cry into the air, and his brothers matched him. Moments later, the three leapt back into the air, and the two monarchs found themselves struggling to stay upright under the sudden barrage of wind, grass, and dirt, their flight stirred up in their wake.

Jon stared after them as they grew smaller and smaller in the sky. “They are magnificent creatures,” he told her.

Now, it was Daenerys’ turn to grow serious. “They are not just animals to me,” she informed him, firmly.

“Aye, I understand,” Jon assured her. “Ghost is like a brother, as much as any of the Starks. We’ve fought together, bled together, saved each other’s lives. I know others see the beast, but he’s much more.”

“To me, they’re my children,” she told him. The only ones I’ll ever have, she nearly admitted, but that was a secret no one but Missandei knew.

At the mention of children, Jon was reminded of why he’d come to find her in the first place. His smile faded, as the kingly mantle fell back into place. “Have you decided what you’re going to do about the girl?”

At the reminder of her current conundrum, the queen’s joy faded as well. “That’s why I went flying with them. I needed to clear my mind, and in the air, the world seems so much smaller…”

“And so do your troubles,” Jon finished. “I’ve felt the same, looking down from the top of the Wall.”

In another setting, with less troubling topics at hand, she’d have accused him of saying things she wished to hear. The man had an almost mystical ability to empathize with her, and say just the right thing in any given moment. In that way, he almost reminded her of Daario, but with less swagger and a much more earnest sincerity.

“Did it help any?” asked Jon, pulling her back to the problem at hand.

“Somewhat,” she admitted. The young queen turned and began walking back to the cliffside stairs.

Jon moved to follow, quickly matching pace to walk side by side. “I wanted to tell you something. I don’t know if it will help or not, but… I was faced with a similar choice, not long ago. You wanted to know about that bit where I said I died?”

The Targaryen girl nodded, her curiousity over this story he’d been going to such great lengths to avoid, temporarily supplanting the issue at hand. “Some of the Night’s Watch didn’t like that I let the wildlings past the Wall. There were other issues as well, but that was the tipping point, I think. One night, I was given a message that my sister Sansa had arrived at the gates, fleeing the Boltons. I rushed down to meet her, only to find a sign with the word ‘Traitor’ nailed to the front of the gate.”

“When I turned around to demand an explanation, they stepped out of the shadows, knives in their hands.” Jon’s own hand moved to his chest. “There were four of them. They stabbed me, once each, hard in the chest. The last was my steward, Ollie. We’d saved him from a wildling attack after they’d massacred his village, killed his parents. I never thought… I never even considered…” His fist closed around the material of his gambon, squeezing it. “If I’d known, maybe I could have explained it to him, made him understand…”

A hand on his arm halted their descent. “You could not have known,” she tried to comfort him, but he was having none of it.

“I should have. He killed…,” Jon seemed to choke up for a moment, “he killed someone very important to me, to save my life, and I never held it against him. No matter what we had been to each other before, she was an enemy, and she wanted my blood. He saved my life… and then he took it.”

“How did you survive four stabs to the chest?” she finally asked.

“I told you when we first met. I didn’t.” He clawed at the armor on his chest for a moment. “If I could show you, I would. But Ollie, he found my heart. I felt it burst in my chest, the blood pouring out of me, running down into the snow. I felt the cold seep into every fiber of my being and the darkness close around me.”

“What came after,” whispered the queen, even though the haunted look in his eyes left little doubt as to his next words?

“Nothing.” The word was nearly lost to the wind, but he might have shouted it from the way it struck her. “There was nothing… just the black. I can’t describe what it felt like. It felt like both an endless age, swimming in darkness, and yet it also seemed over in an instant. I woke up, naked on a table, gasping for air, like the breath had been sucked out of them.” He laughed at that. I sat up and looked at the wounds. They were still there, raw, and ugly, but they no longer bled. They weren’t healed, they were just… patched, like a roof with a hole in it.”

Daenerys steadied him as best she could. As his tale went, the northern king’s breathing had grown erratic, his eyes distant as though he were re-living those events even as he described them. He’d even begun to tremble, and she was beginning to fear that if she lost her grip on his arm, he might fall down the stairway to his death. “I don’t understand, what happened?”

“Ser Davos explained it to me. That I’d died, but that Melisandre, the priestess who told you to summon me, asked her god to bring me back. It didn’t seem to work, at first, so they’d left me on the table, where they’d been preparing my… body. When I asked her why her god had done this to me, she said she didn’t know. But that he had, so it must have been for a reason.”

“And she could offer you no clue as to what that might be?” Jon could only shake his head.

It was a tale to chill the blood, and anyone else would have called him mad. Maesters would undoubtedly offer all sorts of seemingly rational explanations of how he’d not actually died. But to the woman who’d walked into the fire and emerged again, unscathed, with three dragons at her breast, nothing was impossible anymore.

“What did you do to Ollie?” she asked, despite already having guessed the answer. He’d begun his tale for a reason, perhaps in finishing it, he could find some peace.

“The same as the rest, a traitor’s death: hanging.”

The king of winter and the queen of summer stood atop the stairs in silence, letting the wind off the sea buffet at their hair and clothes, for a while, as Jon labored to bring his breathing back under control. Once the moment seemed to have pased, Daenerys quietly asked him, “is that what you think Anya deserves?”

“No!” he snapped. “She was forced to do something, in the name of protecting her kin. Ollie was almost a man grown. He made his choice.” Taking a deep breath, Jon tried to compose his thoughts. Telling the tale had been harder than he’d thought, and he’d lost the reason he’d come to her.

“In the North, we have a saying, ‘the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.’ When I asked my father what it meant, he said that if you were to end a man’s life, you should look him in the eyes and hear his final words. If you couldn’t bear to do that, then maybe he didn’t deserve to die.”

It was strange, hearing about Ned Stark from his son. Growing up, her brother had taught her to despise him as the closest ally and friend to the Usurper. They were violent, power-hungry savages who sought to ruin their family. And yet, the more she heard of this Ned Stark, the more she wondered how he could have sided with the man who so ruthlessly exterminated her house.

“A wise saying,” she replied, hoping he didn’t notice her guardedly neutral tone. Her mind drifted back to the night of the attack. She’d never killed a man before, not with her own hands. While she did not mourn the death of a man who’d sought to kill her, or worse, at night, she found herself reliving the attack in her dreams.

“I will not execute her,” she assured Jon. “As you say, she was coerced. But neither can I let this go unanswered.”

Jon had been pondering much the same thing, as he’d inspected the work in the caves. “You can’t kill her. I don’t see how imprisoning her indefinitely is much of a solution.”

“I do not place people in chains, I free them,” she informed him.

“You don’t strike me as the type to mutilate a child for punishment, either. So without death, maiming, or imprisonment, that only leaves one thing.”

“Exile,” she finished for him. “I just haven’t decided where to, yet. I will not cast a child out alone into the world. It would be a greater kindness to simply kill her.”

The pair of monarchs resumed their upward climb, both quietly pondering the last remaining piece of the puzzle. As they finally reached the top, Jon spoke up. “I may have a place to send her, but I need to speak to my Hand, first. Would you be wiling to withhold your judgment until he returns?”

“Gladly. I will have Lord Tyrion inform her that her life is not in danger. She should not have that fear hanging over her, while we deliberate.” The Unsullied opened the doors for the, allowing them to take shelter within the stone walls of Dragonstone, at last. “Again, I find myself grateful for your counsel, King Snow.”

Jon’s mouth quivered, and for a moment, she thought he might actually grace her with another of his rare smiles. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, Your Grace. About my name. I’m not ready yet, to be Jon Stark, but perhaps, I no longer have to be a Snow either. What do you think of King Jon of House Stark?”

He watched as she arched one of her surprisingly expressive brows. “It seems a bit long-winded when Jon Stark says the same thing, in a much more concise manner.”

That got the smile to finally appear. Shaking his head, he pointed out, “I’m not sure a woman with as many titles as you have gets to criticize the length of my name.”

The two shared a laugh. Daenerys marveled at how easily this man got past under her guard. It was if part of them had known each other for years, and they were only just now getting reacquainted. For his part, Jon was wondering much the same. He’d never felt this at ease with another woman, aside from Arya, not even Ygritte.

They approached her chamber, to find Tyrion and Varys standing outside, looking even graver than they had in the throne room that morning. The queen felt something cold twist in her stomach as they approached. “What’s happened?”

Once again, the two men shared a silent look that seemed to contain an entire conversation in the blink of an eye. One day, she was going to demand they teach her how they did that, if for no other reason than so she could participate in these conversations with them.

“It’s about the serving girl, your Grace. I’m afraid she’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, a return to Winterfell, to check on the other Stark children.
> 
> This one will probably be a while, as holidays and family consume more and more of my time. I also find Winterfell the hardest characters to write for at the moment.


	7. Threads Converge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotlines begin to come together as Arya and her retinue reach Winterfell. Sansa continues to wrangle the lords of the North into some semblance of order, and Jaime finally faces his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a long-term reader, got the notification for this chapter, and thought "wait, didn't I already read Chapter 7?" you're not wrong. 
> 
> I finally condensed the earlier chapters into the new locational narrative, rather than the POV-centric one I started with. This wound up changing the chapter order, so what should have been Chapter 9 as of last posting is now the new Chapter 7.
> 
> Don't worry about going back to re-read the earlier chapters. The content is largely unchanged, just re-organized and combined. 
> 
> Also, I'm very sorry this took so long to post. Between holidays, work, and the Northern plotline fighting me every step of the way, this took much longer than even I anticipated. Thanks for sticking with this, and believe me, I appreciate your comments and feedback.

**WINTERFELL**

Bran Stark sat outside in the godswood, resting comfortably in the wheeled chair the castle smiths had constructed for him. With his eyes closed, most would have mistaken him for sleeping, but Sansa knew better. In the weeks since his return, the Lady of Winterfell had grown used to her brother’s long periods of inactivity, and knew he was warging.

It was such a strange thing to consider, that her little brother could take over the minds of animals. While she’d been raised on the stories, she’d dismissed them as just that: stories. Disgusting stories, at that, she mused. Her younger self found the idea of sharing the body of a beast repugnant. Now, if she’d had that talent, all she could think of is all the ways she could have used it to escape from her tormentors, or at the very least, torment them back in kind, from the safety of anonymity.

Sansa moved across the wooded area, until she stood next to her brother. Uncertain, she raised her hand to place it on his shoulder, but was unsure if it would harm him to disrupt whatever he was involved with.

“You can touch him.” The voice drew the young lady’s attention upward, to find Meera Reed perched atop one of the thick branches of a nearby tree. “It’ll get his attention. A slap will do it quicker,” she added with a faint smile.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re speaking from personal experience?”

The girl offered a shrug. “There were things hunting us as we made our way back south of the Wall,” she explained. “I didn’t have time to be gentle.”

“Was it wildlings?” she asked, but Meera merely shook her head.

A shiver rippled down Sansa’s spine. For all Jon’s stories, she’d truly not let herself believe them. There were so many more immediate problems than another mythical Long Night. Yet, here she was, now with two more people eager to confirm that the white walkers stirred beyond the Wall, seeking a way south.

“Do you really think they’ll make it past the Wall? It’s stopped them for hundreds of years,” inquired the eldest Stark daughter. But before Meera could offer her opinion, another voice joined their discussion.

“They will,” spoke Bran, who’d come back while they’d been distracted. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“How long do you think it will take them?” The longer, the better, Sansa thought.

Bran seemed to consider it for a moment. “Weeks, perhaps a few months. The Night King is patient.”

Meera dropped down from her perch. “What did you come out here for?”

“We’re about to have another meeting of the lords,” she told them. “I’d very much like you both to attend.” She emphasize the word, to point out that Bran had yet to appear at any of courts she’d held. Preparing her arguments for why he needed to appear, he surprised both women by simply nodding in agreement.

“I was planning to attend this session,” he announced, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s going to be an interesting one.”

“Did you see something?” Sansa asked, even as Meera face grew grim at the prospect of his using the greensight, but Bran shook his head.

“We have guests arriving soon,” he announced. “Tell the guards at the gate to bring them straight to the main hall.”

“How many should we expect?” asked Sansa, already making notes to send word to the kitchen to prepare more food, and having the cleaning staff make extra rooms ready.

“Eight should be arriving in a few hours.”

Sansa started to leave, intent on beginning preparations to receive these guests, but stopped. She’d nearly let the most important question escape her. “Who’s coming, Bran?”

That tiny ghost of a smile grew into something larger and more mischievous, making Sansa’s heart skip to see the Bran she remembered once again. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

============================================

“How much longer must we wait for the king to return?”

Lord Cerwyn once again raised his voice, shouting to be heard over the din of the other grumbling lords of the North. This was a question Sansa had long since grown tired of.

“When his business south is concluded,” the lady of Winterfell reminded him, no longer able to conceal her annoyance.

“Assuming the dragon queen lets him keep his head,” offered Lord Wyman Manderley. “Nothing good has ever come of a Stark going south.” Around him, the lords shouted their agreement, and it was all the young lady could do not to grind her teeth until they broke.

“And what do you know of it, my lord? Did you go to King’s Landing and witness your father beheaded on the whim of a sadistic king? Were you tormented daily by him and his mother, as they used you as a hostage? No? Then do not speak to me of perils of going south. Few know them as well as I.”

Finally, Lord Manderley had the good grace to fall silent, as did most of the room. So, of course, Littlefinger took that moment to step forward. “Forgive them, my lady, they’re only concerned for your brother’s safety and the future of House Stark. Perhaps its time we discussed what happens should King Jon fail to return.” Murmurs of agreement came from the assembled nobles.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, her gaze fixed firmly on her purported savior from King’s Landing. “What is there to discuss? Jon named me to rule in his stead. I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Forgive us, Lady Stark,” spoke Lord Glover, who turned his gaze to the silent Bran sitting next to her, “but this was before a true-born son of Ned Stark made his way home.”

And there it was, the debate she’d been steeling herself for ever since Bran returned. It had only been a matter of time before someone put this question forth. But before she could speak, the little bear of House Mormont cut in.

“If you’re about to say something foolish about women being less capable to rule, Lord Glover, I’ll challenge you myself.” The girl was barely ten and three, and no one doubted she’d do it, much less that she’d likely best the older and portly lord rather handily. But the laws of primogeniture were an old custom, even among the northmen, and they were not so easy to change to their ways. “No one is questioning Lady Sansa’s capabilities,” Lord Glover tried to say, but again Lyanna cut him off.

“That’s what it sounds like to me,” she snapped. The other great ladies present nodded, rising up to stand with the young Lady Mormont. In the wake of the Red Wedding, many wives, sisters, and daughters had stepped up to lead their houses. While not a majority, there were more women present at this lord’s council than in the entire history of the North, and none of them were in a mood to tolerate this line of reasoning.

Before the arguments could grow more heated, however, Bran broke his silence. “My lords and ladies,” he called out, seizing their attention. “Allow me to settle this.” He raised a hand, and within it, he held a scroll that he passed to Maester Wolken.

“Let it be known that I formally renounce any and all claims to the titles and lands of House Stark.” He let his proclamation take hold for a moment, before concluding, “Jon is your rightful king, and my sister Sansa is his successor.”

The maester read the scroll he’d been handed and confirmed that this was a formal writ of abdication, by Brandon of House Stark. An uproar broke out amongst the assembled nobles, each with a different question and demanding the attention of one or both of the Starks seated before them. Sansa, stunned herself by this revelation, rose to her feet in an attempt to regain control, shouting to be heard.

It was at that moment that the doors flew open, and a pair of guards came rushing in. The throng of nobles fell silent, as the two bowed quickly to their lady. “Forgive the intrusion my lady, but guests have arrived, demanding to see you.”

Sansa’s first impulse was to tell them they could wait, as she clearly had much more pressing issues at hand, but then she recalled Bran’s warning from earlier, and took the opportunity to throw water on this fire before the flames rose to high. “Send them in,” she told the pair, who fled the hall as quickly as they entered.

Eight figures strode into the great hall of Winterfell, bedecked in armor and caked in the dirt and mud of the winter roads. It was the tallest of them that caught Sansa’s eye first, not just for his height but the burn scar down right side of his face. Strange how a face that once held such terror for her now brought only joy.

She took a quick accounting of the others accompanying him. She remembered Ser Beric from her days at court, though the years had not been kind, if the patch over his eye was any indication. Nor had they been kinder to Ser Thoros of Myr. Several she did not recognize, but there was another she did. True, he’d grown a beard and let his hair grow darker with age, but Sansa would never forget the face of Jaime Lannister. She was about to call for guards to seize him, when she finally saw the eighth figure. This one was easy to miss, given how much shorter he was than rest.

But it wasn’t a “he” at all, she realized. Though many years had passes since they’d last seen each other, it took only a moment to realize that this small warrior, clad in gambon and leather, with a sword resting on her hip, was once the bane of her young existence.

“Arya!”

At the sight of her long-lost sister, Sansa moved so swiftly around the table, that Brienne almost had to break into a run to keep up. The crowd of lords parted for them to pass, and soon the sisters stood before each other, taking in how much the other had changed.

For Sansa, Arya had transformed, clearly becoming the person she’d always wanted to be: dressed in armor, carrying a weapon, and looking at ease with both. On the other side, Arya thought Sansa looked much the same at first glance, but when their eyes met she saw it. The wide-eyed fancies and naivety had been burned out of her. Whatever had happened since they last saw each other had marked her just as deeply as her own journeys had, only Sansa’s scars were far deeper than the skin.

For once, those assembled knew enough to hold their tongues as the long overdue reunion transpired before them. It was Arya who spoke first. “Do I have to call you Lady Stark?” Her tone was filled with disdain, and one could feel the entire hall hold its breath at the insult.

But Sansa was used to her sister’s jibes, and merely replied, “Yes.”

And with that the daughters of Eddard and Catelyn Stark embraced, their laughter pushing the tension from the room. The room, instead, erupted into cheers, as another scion of House Stark had finally made her way home. The two parted, and Sansa could only think to ask the obvious.

“Where have you been?”

Arya only shrugged. “Lots of places. It’s a long story.” Typical Arya, she thought. It was just as well, theirs were stories not meant for idle ears. They’d talk later, undoubtedly.

“It seems we both came home the long way around.” She shifted her gaze to the seven men she arrived with, focusing first on Sandor, then Jaime. “And with interesting companions, as well.”

Jaime Lannister bowed his head to her. “Lady Stark, I’m merely fulfilling a vow I made to your mother when she freed me, long ago.”

“And what vow is that?” Sansa asked, her voice dripping with scorn and disbelief.

“To deliver you and your sister safely back to her.” Brienne stepped forward, and begged pardon for her interruption. “I was there, my lady, and bore witness to the oath.”

That did little to mollify the Lady of Winterfell’s quickening rage. “Then you did a poor job, sir, as I languished in King’s Landing for many weeks after your return.”

For once, the Kingslayer had the good grace to look ashamed. “They were never going to agree to simply release you,” he pointed out. “Joffrey took far too much pleasure in tormenting you to ever let you go of his own free will.”

“As I said,” sneered the younger woman, “you failed, rather spectacularly.”

“That is one way to see it,” he admitted.

“Is there another?”

“That my plan was too slow for Littlefinger’s own schemes,” he admitted. “Tyrion and I were trying to find ways to get you out of the city, back to your mother. Alas, Joffrey’s untimely death ruined a great many plans, not just our own.”

His words made were reasonable, Sans had to admit, despite herself. “Why did he say nothing of this to me, then?”

“You had just learned of your family’s murder,” he pointed out, “and were not exactly on speaking terms, as I recall. As for the rest of my oath, I am here, you’ll notice, with your beloved sister.”

Another good point, but Sansa was hardly feeling reasonable. Between the struggles with the lords, Littlefinger’s constant hounding, and the looming winter to deal with, the young lady Stark was finding herself rather lacking in patience and understanding for an enemy of her family.

Before she could order him taken outside and executed on the spot, Arya spoke up. “We met at an inn. He was already heading North. He’s broken ties with Cersei, or so he claims.”

“A lie,” Lord Glover cried out, and several other voices joined in that denouncement. “The bitch has sent him here to add another monarch to his bloody deeds.”

“Then why would I walk in the front gate and announce myself,” Jaime snorted. “I know Northerners were a bit slow, but I didn’t think you were that stupid.”

“Careful, Kingslayer,” hissed the lady of the castle. “I’ve yet to think of a reason not to take your head, other than to have the pleasure of killing you slowly.”

That brought Jaime up short, as he’d never known the young woman as anything other than a starry-eyed girl or a tormented and meek prisoner. It seemed he would finally get to see the Wolf, it would seem. Even Clegane looked at her with surprise, even as he held in a snort of amusement at the whole situation.

“Did he save you?” Sansa asked her sister, who could only shake her head. “Were you not already on the way to Winterfell?” Arya nodded. “Then it seems to me, your encounter was, at best, coincidence, and you no more delivered her to safety than any of these other men.”

Once again, Brienne spoke up. “Not true, my lady. It was he who sent me to find you. He armed me, and sent me forth to fulfill his oath in his stead.” She rested her hand on the Valyrian steel blade at her side. “He even gifted me this, and I named it, for him: Oathkeeper.”

“He made me your squire, as well,” Podric reminded her, only to get a scathing look from his knight, so he fell back into silence.

“I didn’t set out from King’s Landing to return your sister to you, it’s true,” admitted the Lannister, “but as your charming sister pointed out, I was already on my way here, to deliver something else to you.”

Sansa regarded him warily. “What did you bring?”

Carefully, Jaime placed his remaining good hand on the blade at his side. As he did so, blades leaped from sheathes all over the room, but the Kingslayer did not free his as well. Instead, he unfastened the sheath from his belt, and offered the blade up to her. “Do you recognize this?”

She did, and her face twisted in disgust. “Yes, it’s Joffrey’s sword.”

“Did he never tell you where he got it?” Jaime asked, “Did he not gloat about it?” Sansa could only shake her head.

“It was made from Lord Stark’s sword. My father had it melted down and reforged into two blades.” A murmur went up from the crowd. “The first has already made its way home, in the hands of Brienne. And this, is the second.” And with that, he extended his arm, offering her the weapon.

For once, Sansa found herself at a loss for words. She hesitated for but a moment before taking the weapon into her hands. It was lighter than she’d expected, but then, she’d never held a normal blade, much one made of Valyrian steel. “You came all this way, just to return a sword?”

“Your family’s sword,” he amended. “And not just for that.” His gaze flickered to Brienne. Clearly, there was something going on between the two of them, and Sansa’s anger receded a bit, as curiosity wormed its way in.

“Even though, you know I’ll almost certainly have you executed?” She expected a snide reply about earning his sister’s wrath, or how he’d be more valuable as a prisoner, but once again, the Kingslayer surprised her.

“As everyone loves to remind me, I’ve broken several oaths in my life. I thought I would try keeping one before I die.” He nodded to Arya. “If you seek my head, there’s little I can do to stop you, but before you lop it off, I would appreciate the honor of a final request.”

She wanted to ask what this request was, but holding a piece of her father in hand, she felt a cooler voice prevail at last. “My brother will decide your fate,” she finally announced. “You’ll await his return in the dungeon.” Almost immediately, Brienne stepped forward, to seize him by the arm.

“I’ll make sure he’s treated properly, my lady.” The young woman regarded her loyal guard, curiosity growing. She cared for him, Sansa realized, and if anything, it seemed to be mutual, if she was reading the two of them correctly. That should have given her pause, and she considered having another guard take the Lannister to his cell, but decided she’d give the two the privacy they clearly desired. So she just nodded, and Brienne, along with her squire, took him away.

“He’s no the only one who needs judgment,” Arya announced, pulling her sister’s attentions back to the others she’d arrived with. “These men seized me when I was fleeing King’s Landing. They sold a friend of mine to be murdered by a witch, after accepting his as one of their own. They’re oath-breakers, liars, and murderers.”

“Is this true?” asked Sansa.

Ser Berric Dondarion stepped forward, and bowed to her. “Your sister casts a very slanted view of events, my lady, but she does not lie. We did accept this companion of hers into our ranks and then gave him over to the Lady Melisandre. The Lord of Light commanded he be given to her, but we know not his fate.”

“So he may not be dead?” she asked, looking to Arya.

Ser Thoros of Myr stepped forward, hesitantly. “We do not, my lady. He may yet live.”

“Melisandre,” muttered Sansa, trying to place the name.

“My lady, I believe that was the name of the priestess that came with King Jon from Castle Black,” suggested Maester Wolken.

Yes, that had been it! “Jon exiled her for burning the Princess Shireen in the name of your so-called god,” Sansa announced. “Is there any reason to doubt she would have done the same to this boy?”

Again, Thoros spoke, looking as ashamed as Beric, now. “If she’d wanted him for a simple sacrifice, she’d not have paid us what she did. He was meant for something greater than a bonfire, but what exactly, I cannot say. ”

That made matters vastly more complicated. They were accused of heinous crimes, and even admitted guilt to a degree. But everything hinged on the survival of this unknown man. “Who was this friend of yours?”

“His name was Gendry. He was a smith’s apprentice.” his sister told her. “We escaped from King’s Landing together. We were both on the run from the queen and the goldcloaks.”

“Why would Cersei want a blacksmith’s boy dead?” asked Lady Mormont.

Arya hesitated before answering. He’d not want this known, but he was dead, and she wanted these brigands to pay for their betrayal. “He was King Robert’s bastard.” Ser Beric’s head shot up at that revelation, and his look of shame only deepened.

Once again, shouting from the crowd of assembled lords broke out. The North may now be an independent kingdom, but none had forgotten the close bond between Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon.

Sansa called out for quiet, and the crowd complied. “These are matters for my brother. In the meanwhile, these men will join the Kingslayer in the dungeon.”

Guards leaped to take them into custody, but the Hound just glared at the two who came for him. “I wasn’t with them,” he snarled. “Tell them, you fire-loving cunt,” but it wasn’t necessary.

“Clegane speaks true,” Dondarrion confirmed. “He’s only recently joined our ranks but a few months ago.”

“I never expected to see you as a member of the Brotherhood without Banners,” Sansa exclaimed, trying not to smile.

The large man shrugged his massive shoulders. “Didn’t have much of a choice, what with winter and all.”

“Then welcome to Winterfell, Sandor Clegane,” the lady proclaimed. “My lords and ladies, thank you for attending, but as you can see, we have much to do. I apologize for cutting this proceeding short, but as you can see, I’m sure my sister and her guest would like to rest and clean up.”

Arya really didn’t feel the need for either, to tell the truth, but she was tired of being stared at by all these people, so she just nodded, and let servants lead her from the hall.

Sansa took her leave as well, making a point to go see Bran later, and scold him severely for keeping this to himself. But first, she had to compose a letter to send to Jon. He needed to be informed of all this as soon as possible. Perhaps it would even hasten his return.

============================================

In the bowels of Winterfell, Jaime found himself once again a prisoner of House Stark, as he surveyed the inside of the cell Brienne had taken him too. “It’s quite an improvement over the muddy cage,” he admitted, as he took a step within, before turning to face her.

The statuesque woman’s face was a mix of confusion, anger, and frustration. “What in the Mother’s name possessed you to come here?”

“You heard about the sept even up here, by now, I assume?” She nodded, so Jaime continued. “I couldn’t stay, not in King’s Landing, not with her, not after…”

“Why come here?”

“To return the sword,” he replied, then paused before adding, “and to see you.”

Now it was Brienne’s turn to extend the silence between them. “Why?” she finally asked.

“Because my life is going to end soon,” he informed her, dropping down onto the straw mat that would serve as his bed. “And I wanted you to know that you’ve… had a rather profound effect on me. I’d long since given up on ever having a shred of honor, of being the Kingslayer for the rest of my days. But you awoke something in me,” confessed the knight, “a boyhood dream I thought had long been crushed by the cruel truths of life.”

“Jaime,” started Brienne, but he held up his golden hand.

“I don’t expect I’ll long survive her brother’s return, and I accept that. I knew the moment I started North how this would end. I’ve done a great deal of harm to this family, more than you know. It’s time justice was served, at last.”

“I don’t accept that,” she insisted. “I’ll speak to Lady Stark.”

Jaime could only shake his head. “It won’t make a difference. She’s owed her vengeance.”

“But not against you! You didn’t kill her brother, or her mother, or her father!”

“I pushed her brother out a window,” he told her.

“What?”

“The boy in the chair,” he reminded her. “He found Cersei and I together. I knew if he told anyone, Robert would have our heads, not only hers and mine, but those of our children, as well. So I pushed him out a tower window, and crippled a ten year old boy. To be fair, I’d intended for the fall to kill him.”

He looked up to her, regarding him with horror. “Not so eager to defend me now, are you?” The Kingslayer laid back on his straw and shut his eyes. “Goodbye, Brienne.”

The door closed behind her with a loud thud. It didn’t take long, however, before the sound of it opening again made him open them again. He looked up, expecting to see Brienne, but instead, he saw the face of the young boy he’d tried to murder, only older, looking down at him, flanked by a young woman with dark, curly hair. Her stance reminded him much of the younger Stark sister.

“I must admit, I thought that chair of yours incapable of handling the stairs down this far.”

“It can’t,” he admitted, “but we can both be carried.”

“And you came all this way to see me,” mused the Kingslayer. “I take it you remember now.” The one reason Cersei and he had not been undone by the boy’s survival was his lack of memory of the incident.

“I do,” Bran confirmed.

Silence hung in the air like a headsman’s axe for several long moments. Jaime had spent much of his time trying to think of what to say when he finally met this person again, and nothing he’d thought of seemed even remotely adequate to the task. So he said, the only thing he could think of.

“I’m sorry.” That made him laugh, just a little. “You know, I always thought those words were empty, a rote bit of politeness we spout when we ruffle another person. That’s why I never used them much. They’re just a polite lie, and I do try to be honest, as much as one can.”

The young man regarded him with a cool, distant stare that was beginning to unnerve him more than a little. “Are you lying now?”

“No, I’m not,” confessed the older man. “I truly am sorry.”

“You were just trying to protect your family,” he replied, in a far too calm tone. “I understand. And I don’t hate you. Not anymore. I’m past that now.”

“That’s very enlightened of you,” quipped Jaime, not quite believing what he was hearing. This had to be some kind of sadistic game.

“If you hadn’t done what you did, I wouldn’t be who I am now.” He seemed to look off far into the distance, as if he could see through the walls of stone that surrounded them. “Speak nothing of this to my sisters. Only the three of us know what happened in the tower that day. The truth would only guarantee your death, and I need you alive.”

That made the knight sit up off the floor. “For what, exactly?”

“For a war,” Bran declared. “The great war to come.”

“Against the Targaryen queen and her barbarian horde, or against my sister?”

“Crowns and thrones don’t matter anymore,” he informed Jaime. “The Long Night is coming, and we must all come together to fight the true enemy.”

“Who is this dire foe?” Suffice to say, he didn’t expect the answer.

“The army of the dead,” said Bran. “The White Walkers are coming for us all.”

This time, Jaime didn’t even try to cover his incredulity. He could only shake his head and laugh at that. “I think that fall did more than break your back.”

This time the young woman spoke up from the shadows. “He’s not mad. We’ve been beyond the Wall. We’ve seen the dead walk with our own eyes. So has King Jon.”

Jaime regarded the pair of them. “Assuming I believe you, and I don’t, I think you’ll need more than a forty-year-old knight, with one hand, to defeat them.”

“It’s not your sword-arm we need,” Bran insisted. “It’s the mind that guides it.”

The laughter that came from the former Kingsguard echoed off the walls, making the girl next to the Stark boy wince in discomfort. “You must have me confused for my brother, boy. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you, I’m the stupidest Lannister.”

“Only because you choose to be. You are your father’s son, no matter how much you tried to deny it.”

Jaime turned a fiery glare towards the crippled young man. “My father tried to orchestrate the destruction of your house. He nearly succeeded. I don’t think comparing me to him is doing either of us any favors.”

“Your father was ruthless in the defense of his family,” the boy pushed. “He was cunning, and brilliant, and dedicated. We need that now.”

“You don’t know anything about my father, boy,” Jaime snapped, “or me, for that matter.”

Bran regarded him for a moment, and then signaled for the girl he was with to wheel him from the cell. Just before the door shut, he turned and called back to Jaime, “You are blessed with abilities few men possess, and what have you done with these blessings? You’ve served as a glorified bodyguard for two kings: one a madman, the other a drunk.”

The broken boy looked back to the maimed knight, his eyes burning through Jaime’s into his very soul, it felt like. “I need you to become the man you were always meant to be; not next year, not tomorrow… now.”

The man known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Kingslayer just sat there, staring after the broken young man in shock and confusion as the door once again shut, leaving him in darkness, with nothing but his thoughts.

============================================

The door opened with a slow creak, as if it had gone untouched for a long time. In the hall, Arya stood on the threshold of her old room, staring into it. This was stupid! Her heart was pounding, her breath held still as the wooden planks moved aside to unveil what lay within. Why was she being like this? It was just a stupid room!

My room, she reminded herself. Once her sanctuary from Sansa and Septa Mordane, the youngest daughter of House Stark had long since given up hope or desire of ever coming home again. And yet, here she was.

Why did I come back, asked the young woman, of herself? She’d been on the road to King’s Landing, to Cersei, and a vengeance long gone unpaid. But she already knew the answer: she missed her pack, even Sansa. To know that she and Jon had reclaimed their family home and name, it had breathed life into something long dead within her: hope.

Now, she stood looking into her room, and was shocked to find the room largely untouched. Dust covered the table near the door, and boxes stood stacked against the far wall at the foot of her old bed, but it was still there: her home. Taking a step within, the breath she’d unconsciously held finally slipped free.

Memories washed over Arya, of running in and barring the door as Sansa pounded on it, demanding she come out and face the Septa for placing field mice in her bed. She blinked, and she was laying in bed, listening to Old Nan’s tales of the Targaryens of old and their dragons. Another blink, and she was staring up at Jon as he gave her her beloved Needle.

The rush of recollection didn’t stop, and all the thing she’d worked so hard to never think about came rushing back in a flood. Suddenly, she was back in King’s Landing, remembering her father talking to her about the man she’d seen in the dungeon. It was the last time she’d spoken to him… If only he’d listened to her! No one ever LISTENED!!!!

Tears began to trickle down her cheeks as the flashes continued, despite all her efforts to stem the flood. Unable to contend with the feelings now washing over her, Arya kicked the door shut. Once she secured the bolt, and her privacy with it, she took her memories and wrestled them down. She wasn’t a weak little girl; she’d *never* been one. Her childhood ended when she killed that stable boy to escape the Red Keep, and had been leaving corpses behind her ever since.

This blubbering would cease! Thinking back to her training, she stopped fighting the memories themselves, and instead, stepped away, looking at them from afar. These were Arya Stark’s memories; she was no one. And so she repeated that over and over, until the tears ceased their flow and the memories went back to where they belonged: in the past. She was unsure how long her meditations had taken, but the sun seemed to be sitting quite a bit lower in the sky than she last saw it.

Just then, a knock jostled her door. She knew who it was. Sansa still had the same knock, light but firm. That was a memory that made her smile. Arya moved to the door and opened it, to find her older sister waiting, as she expected.

“Done playing lady of the castle?”

“I’m not playing,” retorted Sansa. “May I come in?”

“You’re the Lady of Winterfell,” Arya pointed out, stepping away from the door to invite her in.

“And you’re my sister.” Not even a minute in each other’s presence, and they were already slipping back into their rivalry as if no time had passed at all. The red-haired girl moved inside so the other woman could shut the door.

Arya eyed her warily. “You only call me your sister when you want something from me.”

That got a chuckle from the older sister. “Only to talk,” she confessed. “Believe it or not, I’ve actually missed you.”

“I don’t believe you,” replied Arya, but with a tiny smile. She gestured to one of the dusty chairs next to the table, and the two sat. “I missed you, too. Eventually.”

“How long did that take?” asked Sansa.

“At least a year.” And with that, the two shared a laugh.

Finally, Sansa asked the question. “Where have you been all this time? There was no word of you since the day father died.”

“You mean the day they had him executed,” corrected Arya. “I was there. I saw you up there, with them, screaming for them to stop, begging your precious prince to spare his life.”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed red, and she stared down at her hands. “I was a fool, Arya. I was stupid and childish and…”

But Arya cut her off before she could continue. “Did you kill him? I heard you and the Imp poisoned him.”

Reluctantly, her older sister shook her head. “No, but I wish I had.” Looking up, she added, “I nearly did. When he showed me father’s head, made me look as the crows picked at it. He hadn’t noticed we were right on the edge of the keep’s walls. All it would have taken was a push.”

“Why didn’t you?” Arya was genuinely curious, now. But the answer was not one she’d have predicted.

“Sandor stopped me. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back.”

“Sandor.”

“What?”

“You call him Sandor,” Arya pointed out.

“So?”

“He hates being called Sandor.”

Sansa regarded her sister, making a few quick conclusions. “How long did the two of you travel together?”

“Better part of a year, I think. We didn’t exactly keep careful track of the time.”

“Did you really wind up at the wedding?” Again, Arya just nodded.

“I went to the square, and saw father die. Sandor and I went to the Twins, and we saw them hacking apart Rob and Grey Wind.”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to interrupt. “You call him Sandor.” This time, she flashed an impish grin of her own.

“Shut up,” snapped her sibling. “Then he took me to the Vale to ransom me to Aunt Lysa, and she’d just died. At least I didn’t see it happen, this time.”

“I did,” murmured the eldest sister.

That got Arya’s attention. “What? How? I thought you were in King’s Landing.”

“I was captive in King’s Landing for a few years. First I was betrothed to Joffrey, then to Ser Loras, and finally married off to Tyrion Lannister.”

Arya’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I bet that had to have been a miserable wedding night.”

“Actually, he never touched me,” she admitted. “His father even ordered him to rape me, so they’d have an heir with the right to Winterfell, but he refused.”

“Damn.” From the stories, she’d never expect the Imp to respect a woman’s virtue. “That was lucky.”

“Not really,” sighed Sansa. “I think it might have been better if I’d just let him do it, given who did, eventually.”

“That was Ramsey,” Arya checked, and when Sansa nodded, she pressed on. “But how did you get to the Vale?”

“After Joffrey’s poisoning, Littlefinger smuggled me out of the city and to the Vale. He was involved in the murder, but there was someone else, too. He never told me who.”

“So what happened to Aunt Lysa?”

“Lysa was insane,” she explained. “She was in love with Littlefinger, and saw me as a threat. When she threatened to kill me, he talked her down, then pushed her out the moon door.”

Now it was Arya’s turn to look surprised. “And you let him get away with it?”

“I tried to use him,” she admitted. “I thought if I kept his secret, it would give me power over him. But that was when he sold me to the Boltons. I assume he concluded that if I wasn’t in the Vale, then I couldn’t use his secret as leverage.”

“What happened next?”

“I was forced to marry Ramsey Bolton. I’d actually managed to find a more sadistic creature than Joffrey, and a worse husband than a Lannister. I was sure I was being punished.”

“Punished for what?”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed at the memory of how the Queen had duped her. She’d been the reason Cersei had taken their father prisoner, and set off the chain reaction that nearly destroyed their house. Part of her wanted to confess, to admit her sins at long last, but she couldn’t. She’d finally gotten her family back; first Jon, then Bran, and now Arya. If they knew what she’d done… she could lose them all over again. She’d rather die than let that happen.

“For defending Joffrey, for actually thinking Cersei meant well, all because they were royalty.” She shook her head at her own stupidity. One of the skills she’d mastered at court was how to answer with neither full truth or an actual falsehood. It was true enough, after all. “I was a stupid, spoiled child.”

“We all were,” her sister replied, in a tone that was as conciliatory as it was unlike her. “How did you escape the Boltons?”

“Theon helped me. Ramsey had kept him as a pet or slave, or something. I don’t know everything they did to him, but they gelded him.” Arya winced. She’d never been particularly fond of Theon, but he hadn’t deserved that. “They’d so broken him, he was answering to Reek instead of Theon, for a while, at any rate. But he found himself eventually.”

“We jumped from the castle wall, counting on the snow being deep enough to let us survive. We met up with Lady Brienne and Podrick Payne, then went up to Castle Black.”

“I met her, too,” Arya informed her.

“That’s ridiculous,” proclaimed her sister. “How could you have met her?”

“We crossed paths as we left the Vale,” “She claimed to have been sent by mother, but she was wearing a Lannister armor, so Sandor,” she glared at Sansa daring her to make a comment on his name, this time, “fought her. She won, but it was a close fight. I made off on my own.”

“She never mentioned that to me.”

“Probably didn’t want you to know she’d found me, then lost me,” offered Arya, but that didn’t seem right. Sansa would have to ask her later, but ultimately, it didn’t matter.

“That was over a year ago,” she pointed out. “Where did you go after you left the Hound?”

Arya hesitated, trying to decide how much of the truth she wanted to tell. She didn’t want to lie, but she knew Sansa would never understand, not really. “I found out about a place that could train me how to fight, so I went to Braavos.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?” she deflected coyly, much to Sansa’s annoyance.

“Did you learn how to fight?”

Arya just nodded. “I crossed some people, nearly got killed for my trouble, so I came back here. That was when I heard about you and Jon taking back Winterfell. So I came home.”

“And met Jaime Lannister along the way?”

That was met with a shrug. “We crossed paths at an inn. I realized who he was, so I tagged along. Figured I’d kill him when he let his guard down.”

“What, you were just going to bring his head back to Winterfell as a reunion gift?” asked the older sibling incredulously.

“Not exactly,” she admitted. “But when I found out he’d split from his family and was headed North, I changed my mind.”

“And you just happened across The Hound and the Brotherhood.” Again, her sister shrugged. “It’s almost enough to make one think the gods actually give a shit about us.”

That drew forth a scowl. “There’s only one god,” muttered Arya.

“What was that?”

Someone knocked at the door, so Arya got up to open it. This time, it was Bran, sitting quietly in his wheeled chair. Stepping back, she opened the door wide so he could come in, which he did, taking a spot by the table next to Sansa.

“It’s good to see you again, sister.”

“You too,” proclaimed the girl, who then promptly hugged him. It took him a moment to hug her back, but she eventually released him.

“We’ve been trading stories of our time away,” she informed him. “Are you here to share yours?”

“I have things I need to tell you, both of you, but I suppose you’ll need to hear that story first, or you won’t believe me.” And thus did Bran launch into the story of his meeting the Reeds, getting separated from Rickon, and making their way beyond the Wall. Arya listened dutifully, but found her eyes growing wide as saucers as he talked about the Three-Eyed Raven, and the White Walkers.

When he was done, he let her ask the questions, many of them the same as Sansa’s when they’d done this all those weeks ago. To the red-head’s surprise, Arya did little to question the tales of warging and greensight, seemingly accepting them without question.

For her part, Sansa had heard all this before, and while watching the smaller girl’s reaction had been amusing, she was ready to move on. “What did you want to tell us, Bran?”

“It’s about Littlefinger.” Instantly, both sisters’ attention were focused on him. “You need to know what he did.”

The two looked to each other, before asking, “what do you mean?”

“I’m still gathering all the details, but he persuaded Aunt Lysa to murder her husband, which lured father to King’s Landing. Once there, he pretended to ally with father. He’d promised to bring the city watch in on his side when he confronted the queen, but bought them for Cersei instead. He betrayed him to imprisonment and death.”

“Bastard,” Arya spat, rising to her feet, as she proclaimed. “I’ll kill him myself!” But Sansa put a hand on her arm to restrain her.

“You can’t! He’s Lord Protector of the Vale! If you kill him without proof, it could be disastrous!”

“I don’t care about politics,” snapped the dark-haired young warrior, but her sister was having none of it.

“It’s not about politics! If the army of the dead really is coming, then we need every fighter we can muster. The Vale accounts for a large part of the North’ strength at the moment. If they leave, and this Night King comes, we’ll all die!”

“She’s right,” Bran interjected. “We need the Vale.”

“They don’t have to know he’s dead.” A plan was already forming in her head. She’d have to explain things she’d rather went unsaid, but that weaselly little bastard deserved a fate to rival Lord Frey’s.

Sansa’s grip on her forearm tightened. “Arya, please, just think. No matter what charade you have in mind, it won’t hold up indefinitely. It might be weeks or months before they breach the Wall.

“So we just let him live here, in our family’s ancestral seat, sheltering a man who’s betrayed us time and again?!”

“Of course not,” placated Sansa, who slowly took her hand away. “But we need proof to seize him without losing the support of the Vale.” She turned her gaze to Bran.

“My greensight will not persuade the lords of the Aerie, by itself. I imagine few outside this would believe me.”

“Any proof of his treachery would be in King’s Landing,” Arya pointed out.

“He’s not stupid enough to leave that kind of proof behind, especially not after all this time.” Sansa leaned forward, thinking. “But catching him in some current treachery, that might be possible.”

Taking her seat, Arya regarded the other woman intently. “How do you know he’s plotting something?”

“He’s always plotting something,” retorted her sister. “And I think I know what.” She looked to Bran, who nodded in agreement.

“Care to share,” asked Arya?

“Since Bran came back to us, there have been rumors of discontent, that some of the lords would rather a true-born son take the mantle of King in the North, over a bastard or a daughter.”

And who else would be better at spreading rumors than Petyr Baelish? But something didn’t make sense. “Why would he want Bran on the throne?”

“He doesn’t,” Sansa concluded. “He set our aunt against our mother to cause strife across the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. I think he wants to set Bran against Jon.”

“That’s ridiculous,” exclaimed the shorter of the sisters. “Jon would never hurt Bran.” On this, their brother stayed silent.

“They don’t have to, if he can get the lords to take sides on a claim to Winterfell.” That was when it clicked for Arya.

“He doesn’t want them on the throne,” she realized. “He wants you.”

“More than you know,” the red-head shivered at the memory of his kiss. “He’s transferred his obsession with mother to me, it would seem.”

Arya’s face wrinkled once again in disgust. “That’s repulsive,” she proclaimed, to which Sansa could only agree. Before they could continue, Arya held up a hand to silence them. “Someone’s here.” She should have sensed the presence sooner, but her family had distracted her.

As if on cue, someone rapped at the door, so Arya answered it A young woman, only a couple of years her junior, stood outside, carrying a tray of food. “Forgive me, Lady Stark. The Maester thought you might want something to eat, given you missed the midday meal”

She regarded the other woman coolly, but nodded, letting her inside. The servant came in and set the food out for them. Finally, Arya’s wilting gaze drove her from the room. The door bolted once again, she reached for an apple.

“I think we should continue this discussion at a later time,” Bran offered, “and someplace more private.”

“The godswood?” suggested Sansa, to which he nodded. So the three siblings put aside conspiracy and traitors, , as they partook in the food placed before them, and let their talk drift to back to happier times.

As for the servant, Jeyne, a dark-haired and tired looking young woman who’d just celebrated her sixteenth name-day, she made her way back to the rooms of their many guests. Within one, she found Lord Petyr Baelish going over some ledgers, filled with sums and numbers she didn’t understand.

Glancing up, he acknowledged her for but a moment, before returning his attentions to the task at hand. “I trust you have something of interest.” When she answered in the affirmative, he sighed. “Then get to it, girl.”

“The Starks were all together, both sisters, and the brother,” she informed him. “They stopped talking when I entered the room, though.”

The man known to Westeros as Littlefinger dipped his quill in the ink well and made some annotations into his tome. “And what did you hear before you entered?” Jeyne was a bit slow, but like most servants she’d had a certain animal cunning that Petyr had found useful in his girls.

The girl smiled, and stepped closer to whisper to him conspiratorially, “they were talking about you, me lord.”

That piqued his interest enough to finally look at her. “I didn’t get to listen for long. The little one must have realized I was there because they stopped real sudden like.”

“Stop drawing it out, girl. What were they saying?”

Jeyne’s mouth split into a grin of brown and broken teeth. “They was talking about you, and how you wanted to turn the crippled boy and the bastard against each other, so you could place a crown on the pretty sister’s head.”

Petyr closed his eyes, and tried not to smile himself. Sansa had learned her lessons well, he noted. He should have anticipated her seeing through his ruse this early, but it would seem he’d underestimated her. That was not a mistake he’d make again.

“A ludicrous suggestion,” he assured the girl, “as if I have any power over who sits the throne of winter.” Rising to his feet, he plucked a bag from his desk and held it up for the servant to see. “This should be more than sufficient to see you and your kin to the south for the winter.”

The burning hunger in the girl’s eyes at the sight of it was a constant of the common folk, one he was adept at manipulating with little effort. “It’s yours, provided you leave immediately.” When she nodded, he tossed it to her. “I trust you’ll forget all about these unpleasant rumors,” to which she nodded eagerly. Jeyne caught the bag with a surprising grace, bowed, and practically ran out the door, only to collide with a large burly guard, wearing the colors of House Arryn.

“This fine gentleman will assist you, and see you safely off on the morrow,” he informed her. He didn’t bother to add that he was also to ensure that she spoke to no one before departing, and to kill her should she try to slip away. Jeyne was clever enough to figure that out on her own, at the least.

The pair left, and shut the door behind them. Now, the Lord-Protector of the Vale lost himself in thought of how to turn these latest developments to his advantage. Things were changing much faster than he was used to, but there was still plenty of opportunity to be had. Once again, the board was filled with would-be kings and queens, a new game of thrones was underway, and as always, he intended to come out ahead of all the rest, whether they realized it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this was another really talky chapter, as is my wont. I can almost see why D&D glossed over a lot of the "catching up" scenes, as it does border on repetitive for a reader/audience member, but it's not about the exposition. It's about seeing the characters react to what their loved ones went through. So I hope that this take on the Sansa/Arya reunion feels more natural than the "crypt chat" scene we got back in Season 7.


End file.
